The Other Side
by Silverspoon
Summary: FAGE for Saren Kol. Dean and Sam get lost in a seemingly perfect alternate reality, which begs the question - is the grass always greener on The Other Side? AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: ****Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox.  
>.netcommunity/FAGE_3some/93625/**

_**Chapter One**_

_**Lawrence, Kansas**_

_**September 25**__**th**__** 2011**_

Driving after dusk was one of the things that Hal Munroe loathed most, especially given the coupling of his advancing age and receding eyesight. He found that he strained all the more to pick out definite shapes from the swirl of shadows against tarmac, often leading to him making a wholly unnecessary emergency stop for nothing more than overhanging tree branches, and causing him to be the sole reason for the deaths of no less than fifty red squirrels. It was on one such occasion when Hal had narrowly avoided a fender bender with a doe and her young faun that his failing eyes actually picked up something of note in the copse of trees that lined the road.

Squinting, Hal drew his ancient-seen-better-days Ford Pontiac over to the grass verge, and flicked on the beams of his fog lights in order to illuminate the swirling pattern that had first captured his notice. He started as from the unoccupied passenger seat at his side the sound of his cell phone trilling out a tinny, computerised version of Garth Brooks' _Friends In Low Places _filled the car.

Hal fumbled for the phone, his pudgy fingers swiping it from the seat with some difficulty, and sending a stack of overdue paperwork skittering across the floor. He made no move to retrieve the fallen pages however, knowing that he was so far behind in his work of late that it would truly be a miracle if he managed to retain his position in the firm until the end of the month. Lately, things had taken a turn from bad to worse for Hal, and the frequency with which he began to escape to rundown redneck bars to avoid reality had increased to an almost nightly basis. This had done little to help his already failing marriage, or doubtlessly his sky-high blood pressure, and yet Hal simply could not bring himself to care much for either. Divorce or death were both certainties in his near future, and all Hal could do was hope that the former came before the latter so that he could at least gain the satisfaction on his deathbed of knowing that there would be no hefty insurance payout for his shrew of a wife.

"What?" Hal barked gruffly, mopping at his brow with the back of his hand as he continued to frown into the distance in search of the shimmering lights.

"Where are you?" an equally irate female voice demanded, immediately setting every last nerve in Hal's rotund body on edge. The fingers of his free hand, which so happened to be the one upon which his wedding ring nestled, clenched into a tight fist which Hal began to work into the top of his thigh.

"On the road, Ronnie," he all but snarled back, beginning to work the knot of his mauve tie free from his collar, before popping the first few buttons on his shirt. He waited for the sour response he was certain would arrive, not disappointed when a derisive snort greeted him from the other end of the phone.

"Make your millions yet?" Ronnie drawled in a voice thick with the after effects of too much liquor. Her barb was punctuated with a hiccup, and Hal rolled his eyes as he waited for the conversation to begin its natural wind down.

"What did you want?" Hal demanded, wondering momentarily when things between them had gotten so bad that they had resorted to addressing each other more as enemies than partners. Certainly, they had not been lovers for quite some time, although Hal had his suspicions that Ronnie was not going unfulfilled in that area. Only weeks before he had discovered a pair of boxers in the laundry too small to possibly be his, and whilst his insecurities had been ignited, he had failed to confront his wife over the find.

"You need to stop by the grocery store," stated Ronnie, her tone neither softening nor adopting even a tinge of politeness. Hal bristled, awaiting the rest of the demand. "Get milk... and beer."

"Sure," Hal snapped, beginning to lose even the faintest interest in the conversation now as the silvery gleam caught his eye once more.

"Are you listening to me?" Ronnie pressed, her words slurring together a little as her anger mounted. Hal refrained from replying, his gaze affixed to the distance where the lights had reappeared, beginning to shift and intertwine in mid air. Hal's eyes grew wide and he found himself withdrawing his keys from the ignition before his intuition had even begun to warn him against such an idea. There was something ominous about the appearance of the tiny, silvery orbs, which were just a few inches above the forest floor, and positioned amidst a thick copse of trees barely shy of the roadside. However, Hal found himself inexplicably drawn forwards, his keys clutched in his hand seconds after he had allowed the engine to die. Not even bothering to disconnect the call, Hal set his phone down on the dashboard and opened the car door, causing a loud screech of grinding metal to ring out through the night air. Nearby, birds vacated the tree branches they had occupied in fright as Hal began to press on, the twinkling dots beckoning him.

"Hal? Hal?" Ronnie repeated in a furious and shrill scream as she attempted to bring her husband to task. Hal could no longer hear, however, as he had moved several feet away from the stationary vehicle, and was now poised directly in front of the curious oddity that had first been the reason for him to pull over.

Hal cocked his head, jaw slack, as he regarded what appeared to be some kind of shimmering portal, although his logic and better sense scoffed at the very idea. Taking a tentative step forwards, Hal rolled up his shirt sleeve to the elbow of his right arm, and plunged the limb through the wall of light without much thought for the consequences; Hal was a man of action, and his natural curiosity had already succeeded in getting the better of his sense. Moving to the side slightly, Hal poked his head around the back of the doorway, and sucked in a sharp, startled breath as he realised that the rest of his arm was not in fact visible from the other side.

"What the..." Hal began as he shuffled closer to the light, his eyes wide and his breath coming in shallow gasps that indicated his unease. He could hear the rush of blood in his own ears, drowning out the simultaneous pounding of his heart.

It was as he extended one leg in preparation to pass more of his body through the portal, that Hal was greeted by a pair of crimson eyes, which appeared just above his own eye level; feral and brimming with malice.

Hal opened his mouth, preparing to unleash a scream, which was lost to the darkness as an olive skinned arm materialised from within the portal, and strong fingers fixed around Hal's collar.

As he was wrenched so unceremoniously through the gap, Hal Munroe made barely a whisper of sound, before he disappeared without a trace.

**x-x-x**

_**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**_

_**October 3**__**rd**__** 2011**_

"So, what do we got, Sammy?" demanded the older Winchester brother as he reached for a slice of thickly buttered bread with which to begin mopping up the puddle of grease that coated his breakfast plate. The chipped white china, probably amongst the finest the dive of a diner had to offer, had been presented to Dean along with the greasiest bacon, sausage and egg sub that Sam had ever laid eyes upon. It was a stark contrast to his own bowl of muesli, glass of fresh juice and fruit cup, yet so much about the Winchester brothers seemed wholly incompatible that Sam had given up making the comparisons long ago. To everyone who knew them well enough, the Winchester boys were chalk and cheese; and yet they would each happily lay down their life for the other (and in fact had) time and time again, such was the strength of their immeasurable bond.

Sam watched, his upper lip curled in disgust, as Dean allowed the thick, brownish goop to soak into the bread, before taking a generous bite between his teeth. A hundred concerns for his brother's heart and cholesterol levels surged up in Sam's mind but he pushed them all beneath the surface again, knowing that his brother would hardly appreciate the attempt at coddling, as he saw it. Dean knew that his penchant for food, mainly of the fast and greasy variety, would pose a health risk in later years but he had long ago decided that those concerns were reserved for people who were likely to make it to retirement age. The only hunter they knew of who had survived long enough to inch towards his sixties was Bobby Singer, and the kind of life he led could only be described to Dean as just that – 'surviving'. With a deceased wife, a considerable drinking problem, and a house that threatened to fall down around his ears, Bobby led a life that Dean was not all that certain he was in a rush to mirror. So he would enjoy his artery-clogging breakfast subs and chilli cheeseburgers when and where he could, secure in the knowledge that if the hunt didn't manage to kill him first, his end would be secured before he was forced to live out too many of his miserable retirement days.

"A choice," Sam finally piped up, tapping one of the two open newspapers that lay on the table before him. "A possible Rugaru in Minesotta. Fits the pattern- guy disappears for a few days then when he turns up again, he's seen to be devouring his mother and step-father."

Dean chuckled as Sam grimaced, thoroughly disturbed by the images the gruesome article prompted.

"Says he fled the scene when the police arrived after taking a chunk out of one of the officers with just his teeth," Sam revealed, cocking his head as he continued to pick out points of interest from the story. "Bullets penetrated and wounded him but seemed to have no effect slowing him down. He fled the scene and there've only been brief sightings of him since. Awful lot of homeless dudes have turned up at the morgue in a pretty strange way, though."

Dean nodded, licking each of his fingers in turn before then pushing away the empty plate, and reaching for his coffee cup. He sucked down a mouthful, now immune to the bitter and wholly unpleasant taste of cheap filter coffee, finding himself drawing some satisfaction from the act of swallowing.

"What's the alternative?" Dean inquired, resting his cup on the edge of the table and affixing Sam with the weight of his green-eyed gaze.

"Not entirely sure," Sam answered cryptically, enjoying the look of irritation that sparked across Dean's features. "A string of disappearances in the same town dating back to a month ago."

"What's the deal?" Dean demanded, awaiting the supernatural undertones to the revelation he knew could not be far behind. He was not disappointed when Sam finally spoke up.

"Each of the victims turned up three days later, dead, in the same spot they were last traced back to," said Sam, removing a red pen from his inside jacket pocket and beginning to scribble notes in the margin of the paper.

"So what makes you so sure it isn't just some whack job with a pulse who likes to run around in his Mom's underwear?" pressed Dean, reaching for the paper and finding his hand batted almost effortlessly away by his brother. He shot Sam a frown, which tugged the corners of his lips downwards and succeeded in emphasising the natural creases at the corner of his eyes.

"This latest victim- Hal Munroe – an insurance salesman... disappears on Tuesday, reported missing by his wife, and by Friday the police recover his body in the spot his car was found abandoned."

"Doesn't sound so strange to me," Dean challenged, adding another sachet of sugar to his coffee, more for something to do rather than in an effort to affect the taste.

"Says here that Hal once donated a kidney to his brother, twelve years ago to be exact, leaving him with only one functioning kidney," Sam continued, a somewhat ghoulish and delighted smile forming on his lips as he added, "the post mortem revealed two kidneys present."

Dean frowned and made a second grab for the newspaper, his irritation growing as Sam pulled it into his lap at the last second.

"Can't those things like, grow back or something?" Dean said, unsure of the truth behind the rumour he had once overheard back in high-school biology. It was a useless fact, but one he had filed away nonetheless should it prove to come in handy for future reference.

"The third victim was Ian Landings," Sam revealed, seeming unconcerned with addressing Dean's query, "he disappeared two weeks ago, turns up three days later just like our pal Hal... only thing is, Ian lost an arm from below the elbow after serving in Vietnam. However, our corpse turns up with..."

"I'll take two perfectly in tact arms for a hundred, Alex," Dean quipped, this time diving for the paper, which he managed to pry from Sam's fingers. The youngest Winchester let out a snort as Dean settled the paper in his own lap, and began to skim the article with piqued interest. It was only as he started in on the penultimate paragraph that Dean noted the locality of the newspaper with a sort of sinking feeling.

"This paper says Lawrence, Kansas, Sammy," Dean observed, his words almost a challenge. Sam shrugged, popping his last piece of melon into his mouth and chewing on it slowly in a deliberate attempt to prolong his answer.

After swallowing, he mumbled, "I like to keep an eye on things back there. Just in case."

"I say we go after the Rugaru," Dean replied almost immediately as he folded the paper in his lap and tossed it across the tabletop, evidently displeased. "We'll call in the other case to Bobby."

"Wait, Dean," Sam protested, beginning to scramble to collect his jacket and other belongings as Dean tossed a twenty dollar bill onto the table and beat a hasty retreat to the waiting Impala. It was a sure sign to Sammy that he had pushed some, if not all, of Dean's buttons, given the fact that the cheque had actually come to little over twelve dollars and ordinarily Dean Winchester hated to tip.

"Dean, wait up!" implored Sam, grunting as the diner door swung closed almost against his nose, forcing him to wedge it open with one booted foot. He all but tumbled out into the parking lot after Dean, his previous smile now twisted into a frown as he watched his brother slip inside the driver's seat.

"Why are you so against this?" Sam demanded, dropping down into the passenger seat and tossing his possessions into the back as Dean gunned the engine, even before Sammy had managed to pull the door shut.

"Oh, I don't know," Dean replied tartly, stabbing the button on the cassette deck as the strains of a rock chorus filled the car. Generally speaking, when Dean was not in the mood for music, he was more than just a little upset.

"Maybe it's because every single memory I have of that place ends in blind terror and heartache," snapped Dean, taking a left a little too sharply and sending Sam's body careering into the passenger side door. He grunted in pain, his brow furrowing as he shot his brother a dirty look.

"I can't possibly imagine why I _wouldn't_ want to work a job there," Dean retorted, no sign of ending his tirade imminent. Sam rolled his eyes, settling back in his seat and crossing his arms in front of his chest, his resolve clear.

"You're telling me you're going to let a case like this slip through your fingers because of bad memories?" Sam demanded, shooting a glance at the newspaper that now skittered about the back seat, splaying pages haphazardly.

"Bad memories?" Dean repeated, almost disbelieving of Sam's nonchalance, "are you freakin' kidding me? Sam, that place tore our family apart."

"It wasn't the place Dean, it was... circumstances," Sam finished somewhat lamely, shooting a sideways glance at Dean, who was worrying his bottom lip with his teeth.

"Whatever, Sammy," Dean growled, apparently thinking better of his decision to ride back to Bobby's in silence as he jabbed at the cassette player once again, and heavy metal blared from the speakers. Frowning, Sam reached across and twiddled the volume dial, his lips set in a line of grim determination; the details of this new prospective case had Sam intrigued, and he was reluctant as a result to allow it to pass to another and, to his mind, less experienced hunter. The case was one that had been stupefying the Lawrence County Sherriff Department for five weeks now, with a stack of as many bodies all turning up days after their disappearance under seemingly impossible circumstances; Sam was itching to don his fake ID's and poke his nose where it was legally not permitted.

"Come on, Dean," Sam attempted, grimacing as Dean ran a red light in his haste to get back to Bobby's house, and thus draw a line under their conversation. "First victim, Joseph Manners, disappears perfectly healthy and yet when his corpse is recovered three days later, the autopsy shows signs of stage three prostate cancer."

"That's not so hard to believe," Dean replied, shrugging, and yet not once removing his gaze from the stretch of road they travelled, "doctors miss things all the time, and if the dude showed no symptoms..."

"There were also traces of radiation in his system, indicating he'd received radiotherapy within the last three months at least, although his family doctor had no record of even a first consultation," Sam revealed, his eyes practically alight now as he recounted the details of the case. "Second victim was Kathleen Jones, a secretary vacationing with her sister when she disappeared. Kathleen broke her ankle as a teenager and was fitted with metal pins. Autopsy showed..."

"From your chirpy tone, I'll guess nothin'," Dean interjected, almost breathing a sigh of relief as he rounded the corner into Singer's automobile lot, and began to manoeuvre the Impala into her usual parking space.

"Exactly!" Sam almost yelped, slamming a balled fist on the dashboard in his excitement. "Then we have another victim discovered in the same spot, minus the glass eyes he's sported for the last thirty-two years."

"Look, Sam," Dean began, blowing out an unsteady breath through clenched teeth as he turned the keys in the ignition, and the engine quieted. "I'm not denying there's a case..."

"You just want to pass it up to someone else," Sam interrupted, looking away from his brother momentarily as he redoubled his efforts to reign in his disappointment and frustration.

"Why do you want this so bad, Sammy?" demanded Dean, unclipping his safety belt and yet making no move to exit the vehicle. "What is it about this case that's got your panties in a bunch?"

"Honestly..." Sam began, shrugging as he met Dean's gaze- wide hazel eyes affixed upon intense green, "I don't know. Something's just telling me that we gotta work this job, Dean."

"Oh that's great," Dean muttered, chuckling dryly as he rolled his eyes, "we're heading out on a hunch."

Sam opened his mouth in preparation to redouble his protests, when a smile slowly began to inch its way across his lips.

"Wait, you said, we're heading out," Sam stated, shooting Dean a hopeful look, "does that mean...?"

He allowed the question to hang in the air, the tail end unspoken, although both knew what Sam had been getting at. Heaving a sigh, Dean shot his brother a glare, which over the years the younger Winchester had realised not to question.

"Sammy," he muttered darkly, his arm swinging out towards the door handle, "you had me at glass eye."


	2. Chapter 2

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: ****Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox.  
>.netcommunity/FAGE_3some/93625/**

_**Chapter Two**_

**Lawrence, Kansas**

**October 4****th**** 2011**

Sam had insisted on pulling an all-nighter in order to reach their destination before Dean could be allowed time to change his mind. In truth, Sam had known that the peculiar details of the case would prove all too tempting to his brother, (ever the avid hunter), but he had been uncertain as to whether they were enough to prompt him to set foot in the town he loathed once again.

Dean's feelings towards his birthplace and childhood home were understandable, given that his memories of Lawrence were tainted by not only the loss of their mother, but the few weeks following when a devastated John Winchester had descended into a rather public insanity. As only an infant at the time, Sam could barely begin to imagine the kinds of psychological scars that had been inflicted upon Dean but, whilst sympathetic, Sam refused to be cowed by mere memories alone. He hoped that, in time, Dean would come to forgive him for his heavy-handedness where this particular case was concerned, and perhaps even be grateful for it.

The latter had seemed increasingly unlikely however since the almost seven hours drive had been endured by both siblings in total, non-companionable silence. Every attempt by Sam to begin conversation had ended in Dean slumping down that much further in his seat, and screwing his eyes tight closed. The very fact he had allowed Sam to be the one to drive the distance indicated his displeasure at the prospect, almost as though he could not quite bring himself to be the one to deliver them to the town that had haunted his dreams since childhood.

After checking into a motel on the outskirts of town, the brothers had donned their suits and, with a pocketful of fake IDs, set about interviewing the relevant next of kin. Whilst the first few interviews had turned up little new information, Sam was loathed to admit when they rocked up at the final ramshackle bungalow that he had pinned the last of his hopes on the wife of the most current victim. Even as Ronnie Munroe greeted them at the door, dressed in her bathrobe and wielding a tumbler of a clear liquid Sam suspected was not water, he felt his last shred of hope go up in flames.

"Could have hunted a Rugaru," Dean growled under his breath through his best plastered on, official smile as he and Sam climbed the steps of the Munroe's porch, and allowed themselves to be ushered inside by the evidently merry widow.

Without bothering to offer the 'agents' a seat, Ronnie wasted no time in settling herself into an easy chair before draping her legs over the sides.

"You come about Hal?" the sour faced woman demanded, taking a noisy sip from her glass, the rim of which was stained with coral lipstick.

"We have a few questions about your husband's disappearance, Mrs. Munroe," Sam said, forcing a smile through his incredulity.

"Murder," Ronnie Munroe corrected, barely even flinching at the word that Sam had purposefully avoided in order to spare the woman's feelings. It appeared however that he needn't have bothered with such precautions, and he forced his mouth closed as it threatened to drop wide open.

"You may as well say it," Ronnie continued, shrugging before downing the remaining content of the glass. Dean arched an eyebrow and shot Sam a look that clearly communicated his displeasure. Whilst the case definitely smacked of the supernatural, as of yet clues were thin on the ground, and Dean was beginning to regret ever bowing to the pressure from his brother.

"Maybe once you folks are done with your pointless investigation, I can get my insurance money and finally skip this Podunk town," the woman growled, crunching an errant ice cube between her teeth and then flashing Dean a smile as an afterthought.

"Maybe," Dean agreed, his responding smile thin and uncomfortable. He seated himself on the edge of a battered leather couch without invitation, and crossed his legs, not entirely at ease with Mrs. Munroe's wandering gaze.

"Mrs. Munroe..." Sam began, removing his notepad and a pencil from his pocket in one swift movement.

"Please, call me Ronnie," the woman said in husky tones, leaning towards Sam who skirted artfully around the back of the couch.

"Ronnie... I uh..." Sam began, faltering as his cheeks burned with a telltale crimson hue. Dean swallowed down an amused chuckle, deciding that it would perhaps be in his own best interests to lend his sibling a helping hand before their interview was extended anymore than truly necessary.

"What can you tell us about the night Hal disappeared?" Dean interjected, thankful that the woman's somewhat predatory grin was now affixed upon Sam. "What sort of mood was he in?"

"The usual," Ronnie replied, her fingernails beginning to drum against the side of her empty glass. "He was sore because I asked him to stop by the grocery store on his way home, and that was the last time I talked to him."

She gave a small shrug, one that betrayed fully her lack of concern regarding the matter. Dean nodded, glancing at Sam who was scrawling notes in the pad with forced concentration.

"Did Hal seem at all... uneasy in the days before he disappeared?" Dean inquired, rubbing at the darkening shadow of stubble on his jaw as he watched their witness intently. Although she seemed to be far from grieving the loss of her husband, Dean had no reason to believe as of yet that there was anything more substantial than a waning marriage behind her lack of concern.

Ronnie snorted, "Agent Bane, my husband was a failing insurance salesman with a cholesterol problem- he was edgy all the god-damn time."

"Anything you could tell us would be real helpful," Sam said, flashing the woman a small smile that she appeared to lap up. Dean hid a chuckle behind a cough and a balled fist, averting his gaze to the carpet, which was badly singed in spots by mounds of cigarette ash.

"Hal was worried about his job," Ronnie replied after a pause, her expression growing momentarily stoic. For the briefest of seconds, something in the depths of her eyes communicated a spark of grief, but it was gone as quickly as it had first ignited. "The company wasn't doing real good and Hal was under-performing... story of his life."

"We know this must be terribly hard for you," Dean murmured dryly, now beginning to consider that the victim had had a rather lucky escape in his untimely death.

"He started drinking a lot, hanging around this bar after work," Ronnie recounted, pausing in order to raise a cigarette to her puckered lips. Without lighting it, she continued, "He never was one for liquor, but I guess hard times change people. He never mentioned any other kind of trouble though. He was a good guy; people liked him for the most part."

"This bar have a name?" Dean interjected, shooting a glance at Sam.

"_Randy's_... on the edge of town, about a quarter mile away from where Hal disappeared," Ronnie replied, screwing her nose up as she added tartly, "though the police said his blood was clean, so he wasn't drunk driving, if that's what you think."

"Of course not," Dean appeased, a little surprised by Ronnie's sudden readiness to defend her late husband.

"So your husband didn't have any enemies you can think of?" Sam pressed, eager now to extract themselves from Ronnie Munroe's company. She shook her head, dirty blonde hair that was severely greying at the roots bouncing across her shoulder with the gesture.

"Not one," she replied, peering with one eye into the depths of her glass and sighing.

"Did you know the other victims well?" Dean inquired, wracking his brains quickly to conjure the string of names connected with the case.

"It's a small town," Ronnie answered, shrugging again- an apparent trademark gesture for the woman. "We knew them a little but we weren't close or nothing like that. Hal especially kept himself to himself."

"Well, thank you for your time, ma'am," said Sam, offering a final measured smile before gesturing to the door, and finding himself beaten there by several paces by Dean. Extracting a card from his pocket, Sam laid it on the surface of the telephone table, "If you think of anything, anything at all, just call that number. It's a direct line."

The hunters left the house unescorted, Dean shaking his head as Ronnie Munroe began to refill her glass from an unlabelled bottle.

"Well, that was a big, fat waste of time," griped Dean, pausing at the sidewalk to allow the traffic to pass before crossing over towards the Impala.

"We got a lead," defended Sam, resolving to find the silver lining somewhere, especially given Dean's sour mood.

"The bar?" Dean snorted, tossing his head as he slammed the door behind himself and turned his attention to his safety belt. "Dude probably wasn't even there."

"Just because his blood-work was clean?" challenged Sam, "Dean, this is a guy who started out the day with one kidney and ended up with two. How do you explain that?"

"I don't Sammy- I just don't," Dean snapped, tyres squealing as he pulled away from the curb with a little too much gusto.

"I don't see why you're being so difficult about this," Sam retorted, watching his brother carefully as Dean maintained his gaze on the road and traffic ahead. "We're here now, so..."

"Exactly, so let's just do our job, and then get the hell out of here," was Dean's sudden and venomous reply, his gaze ticking to his brother's face for just a fraction of a second. Falling silent, Sam nodded, having spent enough time in Dean's company to know when to keep his own thoughts to himself. It was evident that Dean was on edge about being in Lawrence once again, and Sam knew that his unease was likely to last until the moment the town became nothing more than a speck in the rear-view mirror.

"We'll visit the bar, look around the site of the disappearances, and if we still can't find anything concrete, we'll leave," Sam promised, holding his hands out in front of himself in a placating gesture. "Let's stop by the motel..."

"No," Dean snapped, shaking his head, "we do this now. I want out of here as soon as possible, Sammy."

"Alright," Sam agreed, dropping his head into his hands and heaving a sigh that Dean chose to ignore. "We'll go now."

"Damn straight we will," Dean sniffed, reaching out and turning on the radio, hardly caring that the static hum emanating from it drowned out any music being played. "We'll be out of here by night fall."

Dean Winchester had no idea just how accurate his proclamation would prove to be.

**x-x-x**

They had travelled a continuous circle on the same stretch of road for the last fifty minutes; of that much Sam was sure. He had begun to suspect they were lost when the Impala had sped past the same field complete with pumpkin-headed scarecrow for the fourth time in a row, but it was not until the fifth lap that he decided to voice his concerns.

"Dean, haven't we been this way already, like three times?" he inquired, deciding that understatement was perhaps key to not fanning the flames of Dean's temper.

"We're taking the scenic route," Dean growled, his brow furrowing as he glanced down at the screen of his phone for possibly the hundredth time.

Sam swiped at the cell, dodging the deflecting hand that Dean aimed at him just in time, and allowing himself the opportunity to snatch the handset.

"Hey," griped Dean, the look he shot Sam somewhere between irate and sheepish.

"Dude, you're using GPS," Sam stated, his tone accusatory. Dean snatched the cell back with one hand, casting a glance at the screen and the green dot pulsating unhelpfully in the centre before tossing it over his shoulder into the backseat.

"Like you never do," was Dean's only lame reply. He hunkered down a little further in his seat, eyes affixed on the horizon and the deserted road ahead. Darkness had descended around them recently, and the headlamps of the Impala barely served as pinpricks of light against the thick forest and brush surrounding them. No streetlights lined the roadside, and Dean had reduced the car to an uncharacteristic crawl for fear that any speeding, oncoming vehicles would be spotted too late.

Dean was embarrassed and above all ashamed to admit that he had become lost in the very town in which he had drawn his first breath, and resided in until he was a few weeks shy of five years old. The last thing he needed on top of his self –deprecating thoughts was Sammy adding to the clamour with some ill-timed barbs of his own, and so Dean had kept quiet about their predicament, hopeful that he would steer the Impala back onto its original course before his brother could notice. However, years of John Winchester's tutelage coupled with the time he had served as a hunter had taught Sam nothing if not vigilance, and he had identified Dean's blunder a full ten minutes before deciding to voice it.

"Pull over," Sam instructed, unclipping his safety belt in preparation. Dean shot him a scathing glare, before shaking his head and returning his eyes to the road.

"No way, we're almost back where we need to be," Dean assured Sam in a tone that was not wholly convincing even to his own ears. Sam frowned and tossed his head, rapping gently on the dashboard to encourage his brother into complying.

"Seriously, dude, pull over," Sam instructed, injecting a little more authority into his tone this time as he repeated his command. Dean remained silent, unblinkingly dedicated to driving.

"Dean!" Sam growled, reaching across the passenger seat for the wheel. Dean made a move to slap his brother's hand away, only then realising that Sammy had spotted the oncoming deer several seconds before he had. The animal thundered along the centre division of the road, head down and limbs flying as though some unseen thing in pursuit had spooked it to near insanity.

With a startled gasp, Dean reined the car into the roadside, sending a cloud of grit and dust up into the air alongside the almost painful screech of overworked tyres. The Impala slammed to a halt and both hunters were thrown forwards a little by the motion, before being catapulted back against their seats by the snap of their safety belts.

"Did you hit it?" Sam demanded, his voice rising an octave as he struggled with his belt, all the while twisting his body in an attempt to see out of the rear window.

"I don't think so," Dean murmured, his voice shaking as he contemplated the admittedly close call. There had been no jar of impact, nor any sounds of a body connecting with the cold, sleek metal, but nonetheless Dean reached for the door handle with a growing sense of trepidation.

Sam was at his side in an instant, pulling his door closed and waiting for Dean to lock up the Impala before they began an inspection of the perimeter. The road appeared clear and unnervingly still, although both of the hunters were relieved to note that it seemed likely the animal had made it's way back into the forest, unscathed.

"Looks like Bambi got lucky," said Dean, blowing out the breath he was unaware he had been holding through his cheeks. Sam nodded but made no noise of affirmation, his gaze locked on the trees in the distance and his eyes shining with a keen curiosity that Dean recognised.

"Do you see that?" Sam demanded, raising one arm and striking Dean gently in the chest to draw his gaze towards a patch of trees that were set back a few feet from the road. Dean followed the line of his brother's sight, blinking in surprise as he too took in the swirling pattern of blinking silvery orbs that had formed a kind of doorway shape in midair.

"What the hell..." Dean began, watching askance as Sam began to approach the oddity, seeming entranced. "Hey, Sammy!"

However, the younger Winchester proceeded uninhibited, his eyes having adopted a glassy sheen. He strode towards the lights, one arm outstretched, and at such pace that his brother was forced to jog to just barely keep up.

"Sammy!" Dean yelled, thoroughly disturbed now by Sam's sudden and inexplicable interest, and inherent lack of concern in the strange swirling portal. "Sam, don't you touch that thing."

Dean's instruction seemed to fall on deaf ears, however, and even as Sam drew level with the doorway, he was reaching out one arm in order to make contact with the surface. He glanced back over his shoulder at Dean, the apparent spell he seemed to be under unbroken, before moving once more towards the light.

As Dean's lips parted, a million cautions and words of concern died upon them, as from within the portal, an arm whipped out and seized Sam Winchester around the throat. His eyes went wide in an instant, and Sam appeared not only to have realised his error, but to have shaken free from the haze that had been wrapped around him like a cloak.

Before Dean had managed to reach the portal, Sam disappeared- a yell of surprise the only sound left echoing after his departure. Without a moment of hesitation, Dean did the only thing he could of think- and followed his brother, blindly into danger.


	3. Chapter 3

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: ****Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox.  
>.netcommunity/FAGE_3some/93625/**

_**Chapter Three**_

_**The Other Side**_

By the time his knees connected with the hard, dirt floor, Dean's thoughts were an unrecognisable jumble. Passing through the sheath of light seemed to have worked a kind of haze over him, and for just a moment he struggled to recall how to correctly draw breath.

Gasping a little, Dean rolled onto his back and stared up at the starless night-sky, every muscle in his body that still possessed a shred of logic screaming at him to climb to his feet and locate his brother. However, as Dean began to contemplate rolling back onto his belly and springing to his feet, the sound of someone engaged in a coughing spasm drew his attention. Craning his neck almost painfully, Dean heaved a sigh of relief as his eyes fell upon his brother, lanky limbs spread eagled on the ground as he coughed and hacked. A ring of purple bruises lined Sam's oesophagus, but the fact that he appeared otherwise unharmed comforted Dean enough to allow him to remain in a heap on the floor.

After several seconds, entirely devoted to regaining his breath and clarity of thought, had elapsed, Dean clambered to his feet with a groan. Sam shot his brother a dark look, remaining on the ground and making no move to join him.

"Did you see what that thing was?" demanded Dean, hunkering down by Sam's side and offering him a helping hand, which the younger Winchester accepted grudgingly. Beginning to straighten up and brush down his pants, whilst still spluttering, Sam shook his head. A lock of hair fell in front of his eyes, obscuring his vision momentarily, and Sam brushed it aside with the beginnings of a definite pout forming on his lips.

"I didn't see anything," he admitted in a discontent growl, "one minute I'm standing next to the Impala talking to you, and the next thing I remember I'm on the floor and I feel like my lungs are about to explode."

"I guess whatever it was just... took off," Dean finished, a note of scepticism hanging off his sentence. Something about the whole situation just didn't sit right with Dean, and he found it hard to swallow that a creature would drag them through a harmless tunnel of light just to abandon them by the same side of road they had only seconds ago vacated. Frowning, Dean swept his gaze around the roadside, noting the familiar collection of trees and shrubbery that they had been circling for the past hour.

"Well, then..." Dean began, growing more unnerved with each passing second, "we should..."

"Hey, did we pass that bar before?"

Sam's voice broke through Dean's garbled words like a gunshot slicing through silence. Blinking furiously in surprise, Dean wheeled around to follow the finger that Sam pointed into the distance, where he found a rickety looking building made entirely of wood staring back at him. Dean's mouth dropped open and, as he struggled to regain his composure, he noted the flashing green neon sign that read _'Randy's'_ which hung just over the darkened doorway of the bar.

"That... wasn't... th-that... wasn't there before," Dean stammered, rubbing at his eyes in an almost comical gesture as Sam continued to stare ahead. Lights blazed from several windows, and the soft strains of music drifted on the night air to the hunters' ears. The place had an overall seedy look, even from the outside, which was green in places from moss growth and rotten right through in others. For just a moment, Dean felt the faint stirrings of a memory overtake him, and he was back in front of an old roadhouse that he had once come to look upon as a second home. Blinking back the sudden rush of unwelcome tears that such errant thoughts never failed to prompt, Dean took a step towards the bar.

"No, it wasn't," Sam agreed, seeming as mystified by events as his brother, and yet arguably less affected by the ghosts of the past. When Dean failed to respond, Sam shot him a look; he had seen that glint in his brother's eyes before, every time they passed by a ramshackle roadhouse or were served a beer by a blonde with a little too much spirit. Sam Winchester was no idjit (as some would say), and he had known for a long time now that Dean's mind was never far from one Jo Harvelle, and the sacrifices she had ultimately made for him. As much had been apparent to Sam the moment he had realised that Dean still carried around the old Winchester 1887 rifle that had once been such a prized possession of the young, blonde hunter's. In times past, they had both listened as Jo regaled them with tales of how her father had stashed the weapon away ready for her fifth birthday, which had unfortunately preceded Bill Harvelle's death. Jo had been eight years old before she had found the shotgun, wrapped in a piece of old tarp that had managed to retain her father's wonderful scents of gunpowder and leather. She had begged her mother for three weeks straight to teach her how to shoot, but Ellen had been steadfast in her resolve, and it was not until Jo was ten years old (and following an unexpected demonic attack on the roadhouse), that she had finally yielded to her daughter's wishes. From that very moment, the Winchester had remained by Jo's side until she had gifted it to Dean, right there on her makeshift deathbed; it was as close to a promise as the two hunters had ever gotten, and Sam knew that fact tore at Dean every day.

"Should we check it out?" Sam demanded when it seemed apparent that Dean's thoughts had become otherwise sidetracked. "That's the bar Ronnie Munroe mentioned."

"We can't just stroll in there," Dean hissed, as though in fear of somehow being overheard, "we have no clue what we're up against here."

As loud, raucous laughter echoed on the night air, Sam shot his brother a dubious glance.

"I'd say a bar full of drunks," he quipped, "nothing worse than we've faced before."

Dean shook his head, his features set in a mask of resolve that Sam knew would remain firm. Sighing, he motioned back into the direction of the waiting Impala, his patience with the evening and the whole case beginning to wear thinner.

"Would it make you feel better if we grab the Colt first?" Sam inquired, arching an eyebrow at Dean that clearly demonstrated his thoughts on the matter. With a sardonic smirk, Dean gave a nod.

"Fine," he agreed, bouncing on the balls of his feet a little as he proceeded back towards the roadside, "we grab the gun, we get in, we take a look around, and we get out."

Sam opened his mouth to respond when the brothers drew level with the edge of the road and drank in the one sight that was almost certain to make Dean Winchester weep; the Impala- gone.

"No... oh no... no, no, NO!" Dean screamed the final declaration, aiming a furious punch at the air as he did so that almost threw him off balance.

"Didn't you lock it?" Sam said, staring incredulously at his brother as he paced the space upon which the Impala had previously stood, both hands stroking the air around it as though the car had simply been rendered invisible to the naked eye.

"Of course I freakin' locked it!" Dean roared, hopping irately from one foot to the other as he continued his mental breakdown. "The freakin' keys are in my god-damn pocket!"

"Dude..." Sam observed, his tone pitying as one large hand collided with Dean's shoulder, "she got hotwired."

Shaking his head ruefully, and with real tears glistening in his eyes, Dean whined, "Son of a bitch!"

**x-x-x**

_**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**_

_**October 6**__**th**__** 2011**_

Bobby Singer had not answered his telephone.

Bobby Singer had not answered his cell phone.

Bobby Singer had, evidently, not picked up his faxes.

Hoping that Bobby Singer would read the e-mails arriving to the account set up for him several years ago by an optimistic Sam, was akin to holding out for a drought in Seattle.

And so it was that it had taken the Winchester boys over twenty-four hours to hitch their way from Kansas to South Dakota, and Dean had been forced to ride half way across one state in the back of a wagon that was transporting livestock- namely, a group of pigs who had seen fit to acquaint their snouts repeatedly with Dean's crotch. As a result, he not only felt violated and smelled so strongly of manure it may have been his aftershave, but he was in a figuratively stinking mood by the time the Winchesters finally set foot on Bobby's driveway.

The loss of the Impala had hit Dean hard, and he had refused all his usual preferences for sustenance since that night- although Sam was certain that he would more than likely now make an exception for a bacon sandwich.

The journey had been tedious, uncomfortable, and rather unhelpfully divided between three vehicles; the first being a minivan belonging to a couple hauling their three warring kids over several state lines, the second being the silver Volvo of a young tax accountant who had made every pass imaginable at Sam as he sat captive in the front passenger seat, regaled by tales of her penchant for writing _Twilight_ fanfiction, and the third being an open topped truck driven by a farmer who had insisted that only one of the brothers could ride in the cab up-front so that the other could keep a watchful eye over his pigs, who he upheld were nervous travellers. The way he had proclaimed the latter had almost made Dean feel that he was the luckier brother in that equation until he had learned that the farmer had plied Sammy with hot coffee, _Oreos_, and mullet rock.

As they stood at the bottom of Bobby's immense, winding driveway, Dean narrowed his eyes to slits as he stared at the darkened house in the distance.

"I hate you all," he seethed, jamming his hands into his pockets and scuffing the dirt with the toe of his boot. He grimaced as he noticed the slimy clump of brown and green goo that coated the side of his foot, and realised too late what that last piglet had been up to as it had hunkered down close by him.

"We'll get her back, man," Sam soothed, poised to clap Dean on the back once again but thinking better of it at the last second as his brother shot him a look that could put down an elephant where it stood.

"Not just because of the car," Dean continued, shaking his head and beginning to stalk towards the house with Sam in his wake. "Everything... I hate you all... for everything..."

"You're over-reaching a little, don't you think?" Sam challenged, although his tone was smooth and merely mildly questioning.

"Over-reaching?" Dean spluttered, "I just spent the last few hours of my life riding in a truck with Miss. Piggy, whilst you chowed down on cookies and a hot cup of jo."

"If Bobby had answered one of the million voicemails I left him..." Sam began, trailing off as a worried frown suddenly twisted across his lips. He rubbed at the back of his neck with one palm, narrowing both eyes as he cast a glance over the house they approached.

"I hope he's alright," Sam continued, checking the waistband of his jeans for his handgun almost as an afterthought. At his side, Dean did likewise, flicking the safety catch as he walked.

"He's fine," snapped Dean, not meaning to sound so abrasive and dismissive, and yet managing to anyway. "He's probably away for the weekend... hell, maybe he's got a woman in there and the phones unplugged."

"Bobby... with a woman?" Sam repeated incredulously, resisting the urge to chuckle. Dean contemplated his words for a second before his face became clouded by concern.

"You're right... gees... I hope he's okay."

Sam and Dean exchanged glances that were only half amused before each quickened their pace a little in an effort to reach the Singer residence that much quicker. Dean was the first to arrive in the car lot, the gate of which was hanging open as usual. He strode through the yard with his head down, only now noticing the chill that had crept up around them. He pulled the collar of his jacket a fraction higher and made towards the porch, which he noted was now badly in need of a little touch up. He resolved to do so just as soon as the old man tracked down the Impala for him; a kind of skewed thanks without needing to say as much, since Dean knew that despite all of Bobby's pretences, it was becoming increasingly difficult for the guy to maintain his home as he would have liked.

Without waiting for Sam, Dean hammered one balled fist against the grain repeatedly.

"Bobby! Open up!" he yelled, not at all perturbed by the amount of noise he was making, since Bobby's closest neighbour lived more than a mile away. Redoubling his efforts, Dean called out again, "Bobby! It's Dean and Sam. Open the god-damn door!"

"Anything?" Sam inquired, his features now drawn into a pensive frown, and his revolver clutched in his right hand. Dean shook his head, pausing only to withdraw his own weapon before nodding at Sam. Their eyes locked and each brother instinctively knew their role; each exit needed to be checked and secured and, as usual, Sam would take the back given his advantages in height and weight.

As his brother's head disappeared around the corner, Dean pressed his back flush against the wall and began to count silently in his head the number of seconds it would take Sam to reach his place. When he had counted thirty-seven seconds exactly, Dean pushed himself away from the wall and rammed one shoulder into the rickety screen door. It gave immediately, the splintering of wood and groaning of aged timber loud enough to rouse the dead. When Bobby failed to appear on the threshold after a moment, Dean launched a heavy booted foot at the inner door, satisfied as it flew back on its hinges and struck the adjacent wall. Out back, he heard a similar ruckus, and knew that once again they had synchronised their timing perfectly.

With narrowed eyes scanning the hallway, Dean stepped into Bobby's home and wasted no time in backing himself once more against the wall in order to prevent the element of surprise from behind. He proceeded in the same manner towards the study, noting that nothing seemed disturbed and that there appeared no immediate signs of a struggle; however, it would not be the first time that the brothers were forced to repair Bobby Singer's doors after such a misunderstanding, and likely not the last.

Casting a cursory glance over the study and finding nothing to warrant alarm, Dean moved back out into the hallway and towards the lounge.

However, when a floorboard above his head creaked Dean's gaze shot unbidden towards the ceiling. That was the moment of Dean's undoing, and he gasped as something blunt and heavy connected with the back of his skull. Black spots danced in front of his eyes as Dean hit the floor on his knees, letting out an involuntary groan. His attacker was relentless, and wasted no time in striking out at Dean again in a blow that would have rendered him unconscious had it landed just a centimetre or so to the left. With the shock of the second connection, Dean's gun flew from his hand and skittered across the hardwood floor, landing somewhere beneath the sideboard that Bobby now used as a makeshift bar.

"_Sunnova_..." Dean slurred, stumbling forwards and finding that his legs refused to co-operate. He muttered under his breath, "Can't even see..."

"Stay where you are," a cold voice commanded. Dean frowned, shaking his head to dispel his confusion.

"My brother..." he began, the half hearted threat dying on his lips as he touched a hand to his hair and found it slick with his own blood.

"I dealt with him," the voice replied with such malice that Dean did not doubt they had done exactly that. As the first burst of nausea overcame him, Dean dropped back to the ground, keeping his belly low to the floor and hoping to engage his assailant long enough to regain control over his own motor functions.

"Who are you?" Dean demanded, resisting the urge to spin around and face the owner of the voice, knowing too well that doing so would earn him nothing more than a face full of fist.

The only response he received was a dry chuckle, which he realised as the ringing in his ears subsided, was pitched too high to belong to a male. Both his interest and annoyance piqued, Dean made a show of slumping almost completely over, allowing his eyes to roll into the back of his head and hoping he was making a convincing pantomime of unconsciousness.

However, as he fell silent and forced his breathing to even out, the figure leaned over him so that the scents of vanilla and soap invaded Dean's nostrils. His eyelids flashed open and, spurred on by a memory, Dean spun around and grabbed the rifle that the woman aimed at him clumsily. Her surprise was evident and Dean took full advantage of this as he whipped the shotgun out of her hand, and spun it deftly around in his own.

Before he had realised what he was doing, Dean slammed the barrel of the Winchester 1887 into the face of Jo Harvelle, and she tumbled to the ground.

**Author note – This and all my other stories, (including collaborations), have been delayed due to personal illness, and recurrent time in hospital. I would like to thank Saren Kol, the recipient of this story, for her patience and understanding in the fact that the full story did not meet the intended deadline. All my other stories will be resumed in coming weeks, as soon as I am feeling better. **


	4. Chapter 4

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: ****Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox.  
>.netcommunity/FAGE_3some/93625/**

_**Chapter Four**_

He could not and simply would not stop staring.

Even as she lay slumped in the chair, bound and gagged- unconscious- Dean could not draw his eyes away from the thing that was wearing Jo Harvelle's face.

"I'll kill it," Dean snarled for the seventh consecutive time, pressing the ice pack against his head and wincing as the cold seeped into his skull, only increasing the ache there.

"Calm down," Sam warned, his voice quavering even as he found his own eyes wandering to the face of the blonde- the face he told himself could not be.

After having knocked his attacker unconscious, Dean had wasted no time in binding her to a chair in the centre of a devil's trap, although his own logic told him that the thing could not be a demon. The act made him feel somewhat calmer, and it was as he daubed the final symbols on the trap using a can of red paint that Bobby kept in his desk drawer for such purposes, that Sam had stumbled into the room nursing a black eye and an egg sized lump on his forehead. He groaned about being struck in the face first by some manner of booby trap, before having finally being knocked unconscious by the same shadowy figure he assumed Dean to be trussing up. When his eyes fell upon her face, Sam almost vomited.

Joanna Beth Harvelle had been a good friend to them all and, perhaps given the chance, could have been so much more to Dean. The fact that something vile and otherworldly had committed the ultimate desecration of her memory by adopting her face had left both the brothers reeling, but Dean seemed to be viewing the creature with an unnatural degree of hatred that alarmed Sam- almost as though the thing itself had been the one responsible for taking Jo away. Sam knew that on some level of psycho-analytical bullshit babble he could explain away Dean's reaction with guilt, but nonetheless he was concerned for his brother, who had barely spoken more than the same three words for the last forty minutes.

Dean had waved away Sam's offer to interrogate the creature, and also his suggestion that they employ all the usual tests whilst it was still unconscious. He claimed that he wanted it to feel every scold the holy water may inflict, and every slash of his silver knife, and Sam had listened silently whilst his entire body trembled at the thought. Whilst the thing may not be Jo, it's countenance was identical, and Sam could not help but worry over what the act of torturing her would do to Dean's already fragile mental state.

"Dean, let me talk to it..." Sam began, imploring his brother once again.

"No," Dean barked, his head whipping around as he affixed Sam with a stare that was more vacant than hostile. "No."

"We still haven't found Bobby, why don't you..." Sam attempted once more, sighing as this time Dean shot him down with a look. Holding up his hands in surrender, Sam leaned back in his chair and watched as Dean resumed pacing.

That was the moment the creature began to stir, moaning as she tested the constraints of her bonds, and raised her head to meet the hunters' gazes. Her eyes locked with Dean's- deep, muddy brown with green- and Sam saw in an instant how his brother struggled to hold himself together at the seams. The venom in the creature's glare was almost palpable and Sam's heart stung a little on Dean's behalf. He watched as Dean swallowed hard and sucked in a breath before seizing a chair and planting it just shy of the edge of the devil's trap.

"Good morning sleepy head," Dean quipped, cocking his head to on side as he watched Jo, who winced as the bruise adorning her cheekbone throbbed. He dropped down into the chair, facing off with the doppelganger.

"Bite me you son of a bitch," Jo responded, her tone dripping with malice. At the sound of her voice Dean visibly flinched but he pressed on regardless, forcing himself to remember that whatever they faced was not Jo.

"Charming, you kiss your mother with that mouth?" Dean countered, leaning forwards and beginning to work something free from his pocket. Sam squinted in the dim light, barely picking out the outline of the vial of holy water that Dean kneaded around his palm.

"My mother's dead, so no..." spat Jo, wincing again as the act of speaking sent a fresh wave of pain crashing over her.

"And so are you, so I guess we're two for two on that one," said Dean, all hint of amusement absent from his voice. He sat up straighter in the chair, one foot subconsciously drumming against the floor.

Something flashed across Jo's features- the same look of fear that Dean had seen on the faces of many a dying man. Although he knew that the real Jo had faced such a fate long ago, he felt the bile rise in the back of his throat. The creature's mimic was expert and had Jo Harvelle still been around, then perhaps Dean would have been fooled. However, there was still something off- albeit just a little something. Whilst the voice and the face and indeed the mannerisms of the creature were perfect replicas, there was an air about this thing that had never radiated from the real Jo- _his Jo_. It's eyes, whilst emotive, were almost vacant, and the edges of its words were just a little too jagged. Swallowing hard, Dean reassured himself that _she_ was indeed gone.

"If you're going to kill me just do it," Jo snarled, bucking against the ropes in perhaps what she conveyed as a final act of rebellion.

"Oh sweetheart, I'm going to do so much more than kill you," Dean growled, wishing for all the world that there was a glass of whiskey swirling around his hand even as the words tumbled from his lips.

Jo sat back, uncertainty flickering across her delicate features which she quickly masked with a chuckle that was all bravado. A spark of anger ignited within Dean and he clutched at it desperately, using it as the lifeline he so needed to maintain his resolve.

"That's my dead friend's face you're wearing," he yelled, pushing back his chair so that it clattered across the floor and drawing himself up to his full height. He crossed the room in three measured strides and flung the content of the vial at the creature, unperturbed when she simply screwed her eyes closed and allowed the liquid to trickle down the bridge of her nose. Her skin was unaffected.

"Of course, you couldn't really have been a demon," Dean continued, laughing as he strolled around the circle and began to work his silver knife from the sheath at his belt. "But a shifter..."

He lunged towards Jo, the blade outstretched, and her gasp of breath was audible as the tip met her throat and hovered there, idly. Dean forced his lips to twist into a grin, knowing that in that moment it would seem that he had finally lost every last shred of his humanity, and hardly caring. Sam watched from the corner, hovering between a standing and sitting position, unsure of when or even if he should intervene.

"Give me one good reason I shouldn't slit your throat right now," Dean hissed, the tip of his nose pressed against the tip of Jo's. The knife trembled in his shaking hand but the creature appeared not to notice as it struggled to draw it's own breath. A bead of perspiration trickled down her forehead, but Dean continued to drown out the part of himself that screamed for all this to end.

"Do it..." she hissed back, her eyes searching Dean's. The brown orbs exploded with pain for just a moment, and Dean blinked as he took a step back. Quickly, the thing recovered itself, setting it's jaw and tipping it's chin as it gazed stonily up at him.

Without a further word, Dean reached forward and drew the blade an inch across the top of the creature's shoulder, noting how it chewed on its bottom lip rather than allow him the satisfaction of hearing it cry out. When the thin line of crimson began to leak from the wound, Dean's brow furrowed.

"What are you?" he demanded, stepping away from the circle and moving to Sam's side.

"A hunter," was the sole, venomous reply.

Dean stiffened, unsure as to how long he could last if the thing insisted on keeping up the pretences of actually being Jo. He wondered how much about her life and even her death it knew- exactly how badly it could wound him before he would find the courage to end it.

"Who are you?" Sam attempted, stepping forwards and positioning himself between Dean and Jo. He could see Dean's carefully constructed wall beginning to crumble, and Sam would be damned if he allowed that to happen on his watch.

"Jo," she spat even as she slyly fumbled with the ends of the bonds behind her back. Sam allowed her to continue uninterrupted, certain that the creature would be unable to slip any knot that Dean had fashioned.

"Jo Harvelle died almost two years ago in a hardware store in Carthage," Sam countered, his voice raised and unsteady in the face of such blatant mockery. He shot a sideways glance at Dean, noting the moisture pooling within the depths of his eyes, and yet knowing that he had little other option than to carry on.

"Who are you?" Sam repeated, crossing the room and wavering threateningly in front of their hostage, who failed to recoil as he may have expected. Although she was trembling visibly, Jo kept her gaze trained levelly on the Winchesters.

"What are you talking about?" she demanded in a voice barely above a whisper, and yet laden with enough sorrow to be akin to a scream. "I am Jo... and I don't know who or what the hell you are... but this is enough..."

Sam faltered, his mouth opening and yet words refusing to form on his lips as he watched a single tear slide down Jo's cheek, and splash onto the front of her grey sweatshirt. Squinting a little, he focused in on the logo emblazoned on the breast pocket, noting that it was a band logo from some virtually unknown metal group that Dean had always admired. He thought he remembered Dean having owned a similar sweatshirt, although it had disappeared from his duffel after a brief stop at the roadhouse once. Sam swallowed hard, shaking his head to dispel his thoughts and the avenue down which they were headed.

"Tell us what you want," he demanded, withdrawing his revolver and cocking the safety catch before pressing the nozzle of the gun direct into her chest. She flinched and her eyelids fluttered closed momentarily, but after a beat she shook her head.

"Just do it..." she murmured, something in her voice causing the words to sound more like a plea. Sam swept the back of one hand across his forehead, feeling beads of sweat meet his skin as he did so.

"He's gone... they're all gone... I don't have anything left," Jo wept, dissolving into tears now that were almost too much for Sam to bear witness to. "Please just do it."

For several seconds, they remained; Dean holding his breath as he watched the scene unfold as though from a great height, Jo breathing erratically as she awaited her fate, and Sam's heart pounding in his ears as for the first time doubt began to flood him.

He lowered the gun, flicking the safety catch back on before sliding it into the waistband of his trousers.

"Who's gone?" he pressed, his tone more gentle, "you said, 'they're all gone'."

Jo nodded, more tears slipping free from her eyes now as the figurative dam appeared to have broken.

"My Mom... my hu-husband," she muttered, her gaze sliding upwards quickly. Sam took a step back, his heart sinking at the revelation.

"Your husband?" Dean demanded, his voice sounding hollow, almost as though something inside of him had broken. "Jo never had a husband. You're lying."

"I'm not," she screamed, kicking the chair leg with such force and surprising strength that Sam stumbled several more paces clear, momentarily forgetting that she was bound to the chair.

"I am Joanna Beth Winchester... I am a hunter... my Mom's name was Ellen and she died in a fire at the old roadhouse... this is my home... my husband was Dean John Winchester and... his brother was Samuel James Winchester... they're dead... I saw-I watched him die... now please, just do it... just kill me too..."

Jo broke off, her chest heaving from the outburst, and stray strands of blonde hair beginning to stick in clumps to her cheeks where her tears fell. She hiccupped a sob, chewing almost self-consciously on her bottom lip as she dropped her gaze to her lap.

Dean stared, his mouth suddenly unbearably dry and his blood running cold in his veins. Sam did not move an inch, frozen to the spot as he watched Jo unravel before them, knowing that he was the cause of as much, and uncertain now as to whether the woman before them was in fact not some part of the woman they had once known- and whom Dean had once loved.

"Kill me..." she pleaded, her voice cracking even as it pierced the deathly silence that had descended. She paused only for a moment, just long enough to allow her eyes to lock with Dean's face as she added, "just please... not as _him_."

**x-x-x**

They had searched the house from top to bottom and, excluding the panic room, almost every corner had yielded some fraction of evidence to support Jo's claims. A death certificate for Ellen dated 2008, lay beneath a pile of paperwork in a folder that included both his and Jo's birth certificates and their marriage licence. Dean had retrieved a box of photographs from beneath a bed Jo insisted they had once shared, and had poured over every beaming image of them interlocked in embrace after embrace until he could stand it no more. Sam had discovered stacks of cards in kitchen drawers written to 'My Darling Wife' or 'My Dearest Husband' with schmaltzy verses that they had evidently picked for comic value, whilst secretly meaning every word. However, it was when Dean happened across his own and Sam's official death certificates that he was hit with the sinking certainty that somehow, this was no longer their reality. The details on both certificates were sketchy at best, with the date the same and the time estimated at around several minutes apart; apparently, Sam had died first.

Sam had looked over all the documents with a discerning eye, certain of nothing but his own uncertainty, and yet believing that in this world both he and Dean had died six months ago.

The woman tied to the chair wore a silver wedding band on her left hand and from a pendant around her neck, alongside the familiar looking bronzed good luck charm, its partner rested. Dean could tell just by looking that the ring would fit snugly on the finger of his left hand, but he made no move to verify the suspicion. Instead, he sat across the room from Jo, reluctant to release her constraints until his feelings of both shock and unease had waned. Whilst there was a part of him that longed to scoop Jo up and tell her everything he had never gotten a chance to before, Dean knew that this woman was in many ways different from the one he had known. With actual memories of having shared a life with her Dean, she was that much more elusive, and Dean somehow found himself as heartbroken as he had been the day she had, in his reality, died.

"Here," Dean murmured, rising to his feet and crossing the room until he was stationed in front of Jo. She glared up at him, her hair a tangled mess, and her eyes sparkling with the tears she had managed to check.

Withdrawing his knife once more, Dean slid the blade quickly across his own palm, grimacing as blood began to flow. He held up the wound before tossing the knife towards Sam, who did likewise. Next, Dean chugged a vial of holy water, watching from the corner of his eye as Sam did the same from the stash he kept in his back pocket. Jo watched their display, unimpressed.

"That just proves to me what you're not," she replied, her Southern twang intensified by her irritation. "It doesn't tell me what you _are_, though."

"Well, that one you'll have to take on faith, sister," Dean answered, a smile twitching at the corners of his lips finally as he reached behind Jo's back and sliced through the ropes that held her with his knife. He noted with a pang of regret how she seemed to stiffen at his proximity, but he reminded himself that he had broken into her home, tied her up, and dealt her nothing but grief since she had first laid eyes upon him.

"I'm listening," Jo said, reaching around the chair and beginning to massage the red welts that were forming on her wrists. Dean eyed the wounds guiltily, hating himself just a little bit more for having inflicted physical pain on her alongside the mental.

"We think we're in a different reality," Dean said quietly, dropping his gaze to the floor as he processed his own ludicrous claim. As Dean recounted their story, from stepping through the apparent portal to hitching their way back to Bobby's, Jo listened in silence. When Dean finally finished, falling as silent as the grave, she sucked on her front teeth without comment.

"That the best you got?" she demanded, straightening up finally and affixing the brothers with a murderous glare. "You expect me to believe..."

"Ask me anything," Dean interjected, rising almost warily from his chair as Jo did likewise. She took a step forwards, her eyes searching his face, and planted both hands squarely on her hips.

"Anything?" she inquired, something about her tone decidedly dangerous. Dean swallowed hard, and nodded.

"Our mother's maiden name is Campbell, your birthday is April 4th, you love pudding but only straight from the can, and... and your Mom never wanted you to be a hunter," Dean said in a rush, watching the quirk of Jo's brow curiously.

"Any of that could be research and a few lucky guesses," she snapped back, her gaze roving every inch of him now as indecision flickered clearly across her expression. "I want something that only Dean would know... nobody else."

"But... I... I'm not your Dean," he replied helplessly, shooting an imploring glance at Sam who nodded, but failed to interrupt. Jo shrugged, shaking her head and looking away momentarily.

"Maybe so, but if what you're saying is true, then you're my Dean with a few different life experiences," she answered tartly, her tone dropping along with her eyes as she added, "the essence of the man should be the same."

After a pause, Dean bobbed his head in agreement, ignoring the strangled gasp of protest that spilled from his brother's lips. He held up a hand to Sam, begging him to keep quiet, and turned to face Jo full on.

"How did you propose to me?"

The question hit Dean like a punch to the gut, and he almost doubled over as his breath whooshed from his body. He blinked quickly, frozen in the headlights of her scrutiny, and found suddenly that his tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth.

Dean wracked his brains, unwilling to admit defeat, or that the question had indeed stumped him. Instead, he tried to put himself into that position; one that he had often imagined he might find himself in one day, until Jo had been snatched away too soon. He thought about everything they could have had, recalling that bittersweet first and last kiss that had left the taste of her lingering on his tongue for months afterwards. He considered every meeting that had transpired between them; the playful banter, the longing looks covertly exchanged, and a moment that Sammy had never known about when they had fallen asleep together on Bobby's couch, watching late night TV and wrapped in a blanket that had seen better days. He thought about the moment they had said goodbye, and how the blood and colours of death that stained her skin had not tarnished her beauty- he thought about it all, but most of all, he thought about a photograph yielding to flame, and how he had never quite been the same since then.

When Dean replied, it was with the ghost of a smile playing across his lips, and a ring of certainty to his voice, "Pizza, a six pack, and side one of Zeppelin IV."

Jo did not respond. Instead, she stepped forwards until her body was tucked flush against Dean's and, in the next moment, her lips crashed against his own. They kissed with the kind of passion they had never before been allowed, and every little inconsequential thing just dropped away.


	5. Chapter 5

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: ****Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox.  
>.netcommunity/FAGE_3some/93625/**

_**Chapter Five**_

After several moments, Jo's eyelids fluttered open, and she stared up into the eyes of the man who, although identical in every way, could not be her husband. Shame and guilt collided, and Jo hopped backwards, wrapping her arms around herself and letting out a strangled cry.

"I... I'm sorry," she mumbled, adding in a rush, "I didn't mean... I shouldn't have done that... you're not..."

"It's okay," Dean soothed, stepping towards Jo and frowning as she recoiled. Instead, he lowered his arms to his sides and settled for simply staring at her.

"This is just a lot to take in," Jo murmured, her tone almost apologetic. A deep crimson blush stained her cheeks as the realisation that Sam had been forced to bear witness to her momentary lapse of judgement hit her full force.

"It's okay," Dean repeated, resisting the urge to pull her back into his arms. "We... I... I'm just real glad to see you."

Jo nodded, her fingers reaching absently for the pendant around her neck, which she began to toy with as she stared at the Winchesters.

"I hate to interrupt," Sam said softly, wincing as Jo glanced sharply at him and Dean simultaneously shot him a murderous look, "but we still have a case here."

"We do?" Dean demanded, taken aback by Sam's words. All thoughts of the case they had been attempting to work had been driven from his mind the second he had discovered the Impala apparently missing. The job had been abandoned without the usual discussion, and the Winchesters had set about getting back to Bobby's, both having lost any shred of enthusiasm for the goings on in their once-hometown.

"Sure," Sam said, bobbing his head furiously as he sat up a little straighter, "isn't it obvious? If we have doubles in this world, who led completely different lives to ours then the murder victims would have had them too. The bodies that were turning up in our world were the versions from this world... hence the not so subtle differences."

Dean's eyes widened as understanding finally dawned upon him, "Ian Landings never went to Vietnam in this reality and Hal Munroe..."

"Never needed to donate that kidney to his brother," Sam finished triumphantly, glancing from a thoroughly confused Jo to Dean for affirmation.

"Hal Munroe?" she repeated, wrinkling her nose and furrowing her brow as though the name plucked at a memory. "That _name_... hey, wait a minute..."

Jo disappeared from the study only to reappear a minute later carrying a hardback book, the cover of which was indiscernible in the poor light. Turning the cover over, she extended it to Sam and Dean, presenting them with a colour image of a grinning Hal Munroe. He was dressed in a sharp suit, his hands tucked into his lapels as he beamed directly into the camera lens- the whole image a far cry from the grainy Polaroid of the miserable man the brothers had been presented with by the Lawrence County Sheriff Department.

"He's an author here?" Sam asked, staring askance at Jo, who nodded.

"Damn famous one too," she said, tilting the cover so that Sam could read the small biography printed there. "He lives in Lawrence with his wife, Ronnie. Made it big a few years ago writing self help books. Guy's loaded."

"Huh, so old Hal did alright for himself," Dean muttered, pushing the book back towards Jo.

"I had a call from a friend a few days back, she put me in touch with Ronnie Munroe," Jo explained, laying the book down onto a nearby surface and pushing up her sleeves. "She said he'd disappeared under strange circumstances... he'd been mumbling for days about a guy with red eyes following him... then before I can assign the case to a hunter, she calls back and tells me he's strolled through the door, a little spooked but otherwise fine."

"Really," Dean muttered, exchanging glances with Sam, who was busily pouring over the book. "Red eyes?"

"Crossroads demon, I figured," she said with a shrug, not understanding the look that passed between the brothers. "Whatever the guy asked for and then ten years before his number's up."

"Well, we all know firsthand how making a deal with one of those bastards ends," Dean chuckled, ignoring the glare directed at him by his brother.

"You haven't bothered to check it out yet?" Sam probed, arching a brow in Jo's direction. She bristled, crossing her arms and tapping one foot against the floor.

"Been kind of busy," she snapped, brushing her hair out of her eyes and disregarding Sam before turning back to Dean. "Things are little different round here than I guess they are in your world."

"How so?" Dean inquired warily, catching the look of sorrow that crashed over Jo's features before she was able to check it once again.

Quietly, she offered, "I could show you?"

**x-x-x**

Jo slipped into the panic room with the brothers in tow, although Dean had to wonder what she expected to find since their search had previously turned up nothing out the ordinary. The room looked very much as it did in their own reality, save for the fact that there were now two cots and several bedrolls stored in one corner.

Dean and Sam watched in silence as Jo moved forwards, going directly to a section of wall at the back of the room. For a few seconds, she swept her fingers across the surface of the bricks, before letting out a small cry of triumph. The hunters watched in awe as a hidden door swung open, and Jo disappeared inside the wall only to emerge seconds later dragging something behind her.

Dean started as he realised that the object Jo manoeuvred was an ancient and rickety wheelchair, bearing the load of one Bobby Singer. Sam and Dean exchanged glances, their hearts evidently sinking in unison, as each realised that in this world, Bobby was still confined to his chair. However, when Jo swung the chair around, allowing Bobby to face the boys, the friendly smile that Dean had affixed upon his lips died in an instant.

Bobby's head was cocked to one side, and gone was his customary baseball cap. He wore a maroon t-shirt over a plain white button-down shirt, the front of which was stained presumably by the trail of dribble that ebbed from the corner of his mouth. His lips were slightly parted, and he seemed to stare off into the distance, his eyes glassy and hopelessly vacant. Whilst Bobby's hair had been combed into a respectable style, his fingernails trimmed, and his jaw clean-shaven, it was evident that he had undertaken none of those tasks himself.

"What happened?" Dean inquired gently, finally locating his voice. He took a step towards Bobby and hunkered down in front of the chair, his eyes drifting to the gnarled hands folded in the old man's lap. Dean reached out and brushed the tip of his fingers against Bobby's cool skin, letting out a sigh when he received no response.

"It was demons," Jo answered, reaching forwards and resting an almost protective hand on Bobby's shoulder. "They forced his car off the road. It was nearly twenty-four hours before you... before Dean and Sam found him at the bottom of a quarry."

"What's the prognosis?" Sam murmured, settling himself on the edge of the adjacent cot and averting his gaze from the wheelchair and its painfully silent occupant.

"He had a stroke brought on by the impact..." Jo explained, swallowing down a breath and forcing herself to continue, "two more at the hospital... doctor's said it was a miracle he pulled through at all but that's our Bobby... stubborn ol' mule... but the damage for the most part is irreparable."

"How long?" asked Dean, reaching forwards despite his better judgement and seizing Jo's free hand. She shot a glance down at their interlaced fingers but refrained from pulling back, much to Dean's relief.

"Nearly nine months," she murmured, still unable to meet Dean's gaze and so speaking instead to Sam. "Since... since Dean... I take care of Bobby best I can and I pass the hunting cases onto those who are able. It's not ideal but... I'm all he's got left now."

Dean merely nodded, pained even more by the unspoken inferences in Jo's words. In truth, it seemed that a crippled old man and a dilapidated house where all that Jo had left now, whether she cared to admit it to herself or not.

"We should go check out Hal Munroe's place," Sam stated, something in his voice reluctant even as it shattered the silence. "Do you have an address?"

Jo nodded and before Dean could react, her hand had been withdrawn from his and her fingers curled around the handles of Bobby's chair.

"We'll leave in the morning," Dean said, shooting a glance at Sam that left little room for disagreement.

"We can sleep in the yard, if that..." continued Dean, his eyes now on Jo, who shook her head vehemently.

"That's not necessary," she replied, already beginning to manoeuvre Bobby through the doorway and back towards the upstairs living area now that she was satisfied that any danger had passed. Dean moved to aid her only to be deflected by a simple look, the likes of which he knew better than to argue with, especially where a Harvelle was concerned.

"There're plenty of empty rooms upstairs," Jo continued, making good progress on the stairs despite her own slight frame versus Bobby's considerable bulk. Dean assumed she was well-practiced in the route now, knowing all too well how the combinations of solitude and loss would have affected his own nerve. Had he found himself in Jo's situation, he was not entirely certain that he would not have been sleeping in the panic room.

"Thank you," Sam said, following up the stairs closely, his hands drifting at his sides diplomatically although Dean could tell from his stance that he was ready to catch the chair should Jo lose her grip. She made it to the top of the staircase however without incident, and Dean and Sam exchanged glances as she proceeded to close off the door to the basement.

"It's pretty late," Jo stated, shooting a pointed glance at Bobby, who had not moved even a fraction of an inch. "I should probably get Bobby settled."

"You need..." Dean began, wincing as Sam shot him a warning glare, "I mean... if you... if there's anything we can help you with..."

"I'll be just fine," Jo said, the ghost of a smile playing across her lips. In the moonlight that filtered in through the nearby window, the ashen pallor of her skin was all the more evident, and the dark circles that ringed her eyes concerned Dean as to whether she had been sleeping all these months, or simply keeping a vigil at Bobby's bedside.

The brothers watched in silence as Jo wheeled Bobby towards the main staircase, all the while muttering soothingly under her breath as though it was a sleepy child she tended to, and not a man old enough to be her father.

"This is messed up," Dean growled when he was sure that Jo was out of earshot, and he and Sammy were once again alone in the hallway. The steady tick of the grandfather clock was familiar albeit a little too loud, but Dean focused in on the sound, needing the distraction from his own thoughts.

Sam remained silent; neither countering Dean's declaration nor attempting to assuage it with words of comfort. If truth be told, he had none. The brothers' own reality was a far cry from perfection, with a list of both friends and family deceased that was as long as their combined rap sheets, and yet Sam could not deny that there was something so unjust about this other reality that it damn near took his breath away. Although Jo was alive in this world, something he knew to have brought Dean infinite joy, everything and everyone she had ever loved seemed to have been systematically stripped away from her, leaving a shadow of the woman who had once seemed so unbreakable.

For once, out of respect for the girl he had called a friend, Sam could not bring himself to speak the lies his brother so desperately needed to hear.

**x-x-x**

_**Lawrence, Kansas**_

_**October 7**__**th**__** 2011**_

It had been a long time since Hal had looked forward to returning home after a days work, and he was certain that the novelty would not soon wear thin. The car he pulled into his expansive driveway in was a top of the range Lexus, which practically purred into life the second he inserted the key into the ignition. It was a far cry from the Ford Pontiac that he had spent the last seven years pootling around in, and just one of the many things about his days that gave Hal real cause to smile. For almost a week now, he had existed with a permanent grin affixed to his face whilst he enjoyed sporting designer suits, dining in five star restaurants, and being showered with the hospitality and gratitude of those he could only describe as adoring fans. It seemed that, in this world at least, Hal Munroe had finally done something right- or indeed a string of somethings, including several lucrative book deals and a television show in the pipeline.

Yet best of all was the overwhelming change in his marriage. Never in all his days had Hal known his wife to gaze at him with such unchecked adoration as she had only the other evening as they sipped at champagne and nibbled on chocolate dipped strawberries from the comfort of their hot tub. Afterwards, they had made love in front of a roaring fire that Hal had knocked together more for ambience than actual necessity; nonetheless, he had fallen into a deep and contented slumber that night with his Ronnie tucked into his arms- the perfect end to another perfect day.

Even as newly weds, Hal was not sure that the Ronnie from the other place had ever shown him as much consideration and utter devotion. Here, his wife worshipped the very ground he walked on, practically falling over herself to tend to his every need. For the first time in decades, Hal found himself thoroughly sated and on good terms with a God he had never before recognised. Of course, the rational part of Hal's brain warned him that nothing about the situation was even remotely godly, and yet he continued to allow his own fears to be silenced. When he had first encountered the somewhat pudgy but well-dressed stranger in the bar, he had assumed it was merely a combination of alcohol and poor lighting that had caused his eyes to glow with that unearthly red hue. When he had followed the guy into the parking lot, Hal had hardly considered that that would be the pivotal moment upon which his good fortune was built.

It had taken only a glimpse of all that he could possess to make up Hal's mind. A simple bargain – all that was required for Hal to enjoy the life that the stranger had dangled in front of him, instead of wasting away in the sardine can he called home with an abusive, alcoholic harpy. The deal had been too good to pass up despite his initial scepticism and so, with a kiss, Hal's life had altered beyond recognition.

As far as he could gather, there was something to all that alternate reality mumbo-jumbo that the Sci-Fi channel liked to pedal from time to time. However, Hal's understanding of the matter was muddy and, as an admittedly simple man, he had resolved to devote little time to such perplexing thoughts. All Hal knew was that his luck was in, and it had certainly been a long time coming.

As he approached the front door with his key readied, Hal began to whistle, not caring that the melody was tuneless even as he contemplated the evening that lay ahead of him. When he had called home at lunchtime, Ronnie had promised that a surprise would be awaiting his homecoming, and the very idea of just what that might be now had Hal lolloping towards the stoop like an excited puppy.

He stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him, noting immediately the absence of both light and sound. He frowned a little, wondering if Ronnie meant him to come looking for whatever she had planned, and stepped towards the darkened lounge. Hal realised too late that something about the whole situation was awry and this was precisely the thought running through his head right at the very second that the heavy bust was driven into his skull.

Bone shattered, blood spattered the walls, and the woman wielding the bronze statue sucked in a few steadying breaths as she gazed down at her own handy work. Hal's prone body lay slumped at his wife's feet, his mouth frozen open in an 'o' of surprise, and his eyes staring blankly ahead.

A smile twitched at the corners of Ronnie Munroe's lips, and her leather gloved fingers fastened tighter around the murder weapon. It was shaping up to be a perfect evening, indeed.

**Thank you everyone for bearing with me, this story, and all my others that have failed to update over the last few months. I am now starting to feel better and am working on getting everything up to date. Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday period, and I wish you all the best for 2012. **


	6. Chapter 6

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox.  
>communityFAGE_3some/93625/**

**Chapter Six**

She rarely slept a full night these days. Peace, for the most part, evaded her, and so it was that night after night Jo found herself slumped over Bobby's old kitchen table nursing a mug of untouched coffee that grew colder with the approach of dawn.

She was uncertain how long Dean had been standing in the doorway before she finally called him out and invited him to the table. Dean complied immediately, seizing a chair and turning it round before straddling it backwards. He folded his arms and then rested his chin atop them, watching Jo with an intensity that should have made her acutely uncomfortable. Jo flicked a glance towards him, accustomed now to the sharp stab in the gut the simple action prompted. He was identical to her Dean in most ways, and Jo found it more than a little difficult to remind herself that she was not faced with the man she had married but rather his doppelganger. It had taken Jo months to accept that Dean was gone, and her biggest fear was that the appearance of this man would set back her progress indefinitely. She swallowed her discomfort with a mouthful of lukewarm coffee, and her lips twisted into a grimace.

"I could brew a fresh pot?" Dean suggested, seeming grateful for an opportunity to shatter the silence. Jo shrugged, reluctant to commit to any kind of answer, and secretly hoping that an epically sullen display would drive Dean back to his bed. He and Sam had selected the bedroom farthest away from her own, and Jo suspected they had done so to set her mind at rest. She supposed it hardly mattered however, as she had recently become inclined to welcome the prospect of being murdered in her bed. In fact, such a result would only have succeeded in alleviating the feeling of guilt that her occasional and errant dwellings on the prospect of suicide brought. Of course, even in her weakest moments, she would never succumb to the selfish yearning and risk leaving Bobby at the mercy of strangers. Mostly, she could tamp down such thoughts with a generous serving of liquor, and during the instances she found she could not, she took Dean's rifle out back and peppered the wreckages of a hundred classic cars with buckshot.

Apparently realising that a reply was not imminent, Dean shifted in his seat and reached across to Jo. She withdrew the hand that had been pressed flat against the table top before Dean's fingers had even made contact with it, and she looked away as sorrow and regret fought for dominance upon Dean's features.

"Sorry..." he offered, his voice a low rumble. He sounded weary and somehow battered, and Jo resisted the urge to close the space between them. She reminded herself sharply for the thousandth time since his arrival that he could never be what she required him to be, and so she wrapped her arms around herself despite the balmy feel of the night air.

The awkward silence returned, and Jo worked doubly hard at ensuring that her gaze remained trained upon anything other than his face.

"Tell me about me... I mean, him."

"Excuse me?" Jo's head snapped up and she was staring the man straight in the eyes before she had even realised what she was doing. It was her first mistake, and Jo's breath caught painfully in her throat. She made a noise akin to that of a wounded animal, and Dean straightened up in his seat, immediately sorry for uttering the question.

"I just... I..." he faltered, his mouth falling open and closed as he struggled to formulate an apology. Jo climbed to her feet, crossing the kitchen in two strides and throwing her mug down into the sink, not caring when it shattered on impact and splashed brown liquid up the sleeve of her top.

"You're curious... I get it," she retorted, with more venom than she had really intended. She dropped her eyes to the un-mopped tiled floor for a moment, and then back to Dean, not relishing the sucker-punch of pain to her gut when it came.

"Jo... _my_ Jo..." Dean began, hesitating as he considered his words carefully.

"You never found your 'right place, right time'," Jo answered, leaning back against the sink and crossing her arms in front of her chest. She added quietly, "You want to know what it could have been like."

Dean sucked in a breath through his teeth and then bobbed his head. He was surprised by the use of the familiar phrase, and such a small nod to the past left him wondering just how similar the two realities really could have been, for the Winchesters at least.

"Dean is... _was_..." Jo corrected, blanching a little at her own forced use of the past tense, although she recovered quickly, "Dean was the most annoying jack-ass I ever met."

For a moment, Dean thought he may have misheard, but when he spotted the fond smile playing across the lips of the blonde, he let out a guffaw. His laughter only served to fuel her grin, and Jo pushed up her now wet sleeves as she prepared to continue.

"We met at the roadhouse. Mom left a message for John but it was Sam and Dean that picked it up a couple days later. First time I saw him, I put a gun in his back and socked him in the nose," she stated, pride colouring her voice. Her cheeks flushed a little, and Dean could see that she would become easily lost in the memories. He only hoped that emerging from them once again, as she inevitably would, would not bring her too much pain.

"Yeah, she did," Dean murmured, his eyes creasing at the corners as he recalled the smell of beer nuts and gunpowder that had accompanied his first meeting with Jo Harvelle. It seemed like a lifetime ago now, and Dean's heart constricted as he recalled just how green the young woman had really been. He had told himself she was little more than a kid, although she was barely younger than Sammy, and yet she had been filled with such an innocent eagerness that Dean had been half crazy with the desire to protect her; to shove her out of 'the life' before she was truly even initiated, and she became as hardened to the world as he was.

Slowly, Jo made her way over to the table and lowered herself back into the chair parallel to Dean's. He found that his eyes never wavered from her face; the soft line of her jaw, the way her hair curled about her shoulders, and the deep caramel coloured eyes that narrowed just a fraction as she regarded him in return.

"Took him all of ten minutes to recover, make a grab for my ass, and hit on me fast enough to make my head spin," she remarked, cracking a grin as she reminisced. "Mom was real pleased about that."

"I'll bet," snorted Dean, recalling the air of suspicion with which Ellen had first treated him not too long after he had ambled into the roadhouse. However, Dean also remembered the circumstances surrounding that first meeting, and how he had been too immersed in his grief for the recently deceased John Winchester to act on his initial attraction to Jo. That had been the moment that Dean had uttered a phrase that had come back to haunt him ever since; wrong place, wrong time.

"Well, of course I said 'no'," Jo revealed, leaning back in her chair and chuckling as she set her feet up on the table. "Dean and Sam kept coming around though, practically every week. They must have worked every job in a hundred mile radius."

"What changed your mind?" Dean inquired. Jo paused for a moment before drawing a deep breath.

"This one night, they came by after a hunt… Sam and my Mom had already gone to bed but Dean and I just sat up in the bar talking and drinking for hours," she hesitated, her cheeks visibly colouring even in the darkness. "I guess we got kind of loaded… one thing led to another."

Dean quirked a brow, puffing out the breath he had not realised he had been holding.

"I didn't really expect him to be there in the morning," she said, shrugging in a matter-of-fact manner, "but give him his due… when I rolled over, it was Dean-o's pretty face looking back at me."

"Well, how about that," Dean murmured, an almost wistful smile brightening his features.

"Yup," Jo admonished, folding her arms, "there were a whole lot more mornings like that one. Things just sort of became… permanent."

"You guys hunt together?" asked Dean, arching an eyebrow as Jo snorted derisively.

"Hell no!" she exclaimed, toying with the amulet suspended from her neck. "We tried it a couple times but Dean was always so scared something would happen to me. Tried treating me like a freakin' china doll, so I started hunting with Mom until…"

Dean nodded, understanding Jo's need to tail off and quit talking before the words became too much.

"Two years in and suddenly he's popping the question," Jo continued, her voice growing quieter and her eyes flashing with the pain of remembrance. "It wasn't perfect… God knows, some days I don't have a clue how we made it from dawn to dusk without killing each other… but it was ours and… well, we loved each other."

"Sounds pretty perfect to me," Dean mumbled, shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the surface of the table.

"I guess I should have known it wouldn't last," said Jo, seeming to be speaking more to herself now than to Dean. She fingered the amulet absently, screwing her eyes closed for just a second before speaking again, "It was just supposed to be a regular hunt… one demon- that was all. He said it would be a quick exorcism and he'd be home for dessert… he never came home, and by the time I'd got a team together to go out looking, the sheriff was at the door. I barely made it to the hospital but... he waited for me... said he couldn't go without saying goodbye. Sam passed first- Dean a few minutes later... always were co-dependent, those two."

"I'm sorry," Dean said in a husky voice as he watched a single tear descend from Jo's eye. She did not bother to wipe it away, and it coursed down her cheek before rolling off her chin and splashing onto the table. It took every last ounce of Dean's restraint not to gather the woman into his arms, but he knew that he had caused her more than enough pain without offering her what she may perceive as false comfort.

Finally, Jo swiped the back of her hand across her eyes and sniffed, straightening up a little in her seat.

"What about you?" she demanded, clearly having decided that she had earned the right to be privy to Dean's own story. He frowned, shaking his head as though understanding escaped him.

"Cut the bull, sweetheart," Jo stated, a somewhat mischievous look present upon her face as she added, "I'm a big girl… I can take hearing about my death."

Dean hesitated, the weight of his own rising grief making it difficult for him to breathe for a few seconds. When he finally had managed to suck in a much needed breath, Dean found that Jo was staring at him with apparent concern, and just the faintest traces of empathy.

"I guess I just can't take talking about it," he whispered, bowing his head, "it's been over a year and I still…"

"It's ok," Jo assured him, hesitating before she leaned across the table and covered his hand with her own. Dean's gaze rose to meet hers and for a while the couple simply stared at each other in perfect, understanding silence.

"Why do you think things worked out so different for us?" asked Jo when it had become apparent that Dean had regained control of his emotions. He shrugged in response, having wondered nothing but the very same since having accepted Jo's story as the truth.

"Who knows," Dean answered, shaking his head as he contemplated how unfair each of their situations seemed. It appeared that no matter the reality, Dean was simply not destined for happiness at Jo's side.

"Not a week after I set that pyre in the yard, I drove out to a crossroads," Jo murmured, pushing her hair back from her face with one hand and avoiding Dean's gaze. His eyes widened and he felt Jo's grip on his hand tighten.

"What happened?" he pressed.

Jo shook her head, swallowing the lump that rose in her throat, before she said quietly, "I summoned demon after demon but not a one would deal. Apparently, they don't draw up contracts with Winchesters."

Dean's eyebrows shot up and he shook his head slowly.

"Can't say I'm cut up about it after my all expenses paid trip to Hell, but since when?" he asked, watching as Jo frowned at him, shock and surprise crashing over her features.

"Hell?" she repeated, almost incredulously. "You went to Hell?"

"Yeah," he replied, drawing back and scrutinising Jo, "after Sammy died – the first time, anyways- I struck a deal. I got a year and Sam got his life back, but I'm guessing from the look on your face, your Dean never…"

"No!" Jo interjected hastily, looking distraught at the idea. "When did Sam die?"

Dean's brow furrowed, "Right before our big showdown with Azazel."

"Yellow eyes," Jo admonished with a curt nod of her head. "John died taking him out in 2008 not too long after he tracked down the Colt."

"Wait, Dad found the Colt?" Dean demanded, rubbing his forehead with one hand as he felt a headache beginning to brew, more than likely as a result of the reams of information his addled brain was attempting to process.

Jo nodded, chewing on her bottom lip as she explained, "Sure. About two months after Sam and Dean showed at the roadhouse, John rocked up with this crazy story about how he'd stolen some gun from a hunter named Elkin. Said it could kill any demon or supernatural being. Ash helped him track down Azazel and John went out after him. Demons came looking for him; burned the roadhouse to the ground. Mom and Ash… they were trapped… we were at Bobby's looking for a way to help John. By the time we got there… well, it was too late."

"It all makes sense now," said Dean quietly, realisation dawning upon him. For whatever reason, in this reality, John Winchester's stubbornness had yielded just long enough that he had accepted Ellen's offer of help before it had been too late. Coupled with the fact that he had managed to track down the Colt, John had finally gotten to Azazel and ended his life's mission before the demon had been able to assemble his psychic children. Sam had never died; Dean had never entered into the deal that had condemned his soul to Hell; and the entire apocalypse had been avoided before it had even begun. With the seals remaining intact, the Winchesters had simply carried on as regular hunters, avoiding the heavenly war that had claimed Jo's life.

"Hey… are you okay?" Jo checked, brushing the back of Dean's hand with the tips of her fingers. He started visibly, taking a few moments to regroup before he flashed Jo a reassuring smile. It was both thrilling and yet simultaneously heart-breaking to learn that things could have been so very different for them; that happiness could have existed for Dean despite his capacity as a hunter, if only John Winchester had possessed the ability to lay the ghosts of the past to rest and accept the help of the people he had once called family. The message on John's cell phone that had first led the brothers to Harvelle's Roadhouse had gone unanswered for four months in his own reality, but it seemed that in this one, it had been only a matter of days before that meeting had occurred. Without the shadow of grief overhanging him, perhaps the Dean Winchester of this dimension had recognised the capacity to carve out something good with Joanna Beth Harvelle.

"I'm fine," Dean managed to choke out, making a show of examining the clock that hung on the wall above the sink. "It's pretty late… I guess I should…"

"Sure," Jo said in understanding, exchanging a small smile with Dean as he climbed to his feet and started out somewhat reluctantly towards the door. He had barely made it several steps before Jo called out his name.

"Dean?"

He turned on his heel immediately, the look of longing etched across Jo's face tugging at his heart.

Although it was evident that she wished to say more, Jo simply breathed, "Goodnight."

Heading back up the winding staircase, Dean returned to a familiar bed in an all too familiar room, and for the rest of the night he lay awake, contemplating brown eyes and missed opportunities.

**Author's Note – My updating has sucked and I truly apologise, but pregnancy, a difficult birth and recovery, and now four kiddies, have kicked my proverbial and literal ass. Just a few more chapters to go, and hopefully the updates will be more consistent. Virtual pie is available in exchange for reviews. **


	7. Chapter 7

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox.  
>communityFAGE_3some/93625/**

**Chapter Seven**

Closing the door of the beat up Chevy Gemini had been one of the hardest things that Dean Winchester had done in all his thirty-one years. On the other side of the thin sheet of metal and glass stood Jo, arms wrapped around herself and eyes rather tellingly red rimmed as she watched the vehicle she had loaned the brothers ease out of the lot with Sam at the wheel.

Dean had kept a silent watch through the rear-view mirror until they had turned the corner at the bottom of the dirt road, and Singer's automobile yard had disappeared from view, along with Jo. Then, with a frown, Dean had sat back in the passenger seat, propped his feet up on the rattling dash, and proceeded to prod the old radio into life. Sam allowed the pantomime to continue for ten miles, until Dean's stony silence and the static crackle from the evidently dead stereo system finally became too much for him.

"Dude, you want me to turn around?" Sam demanded, eyes sliding sideways to his brother, whose shoulders visibly stiffened at the suggestion.

"Keep heading to Kansas," Dean barked, his tone leaving no room for negotiation. Sam tried again anyway.

"You should tell her, you know," he said, slapping Dean's hand away from the radio and turning it off once and for all.

"Tell her what?" Dean spat sullenly, relaxing back against the faded upholstery and crossing his arms with a scowl. Sam chuckled, shaking his head- an action which sent his shaggy bangs tumbling into his eyes.

"That you're in love with her," he observed, blowing his fringe from his face and peering at the road ahead with a level of feigned concentration. It was always easiest to avoid looking Dean directly in the eye during such exchanges, and Sam was not prepared to back down without a fight.

"That's the last thing that woman needs," Dean snarled, shooting a furious glare at Sam, who simply nodded.

"Maybe," he agreed, pausing a moment before adding softly, "maybe not. It's obvious she's hurting just as much as you are."

"Oh God, you're about to go all Hallmark on me, aren't you?" demanded Dean, clearly using his humour as a deflection tactic from his obvious discomfort with the subject matter.

"All I'm saying is… it seems crazy that you're both grieving for each other," Sam stated, his tone more matter of fact than Dean would have liked. Chuckling, Dean shook his head.

"That's the thing, though," he said, all the fight and stubborn resistance now having dissipated from his voice, "I can't be the guy she married, Sam… and she's not my Jo… not technically."

Sam swallowed hard, an audible gesture, before hazarding a glance in Dean's direction. His brother was staring intently at his own hands, his eyes roving his rough knuckles and the many fine silvery scars that marred his skin as he contemplated the reunion with the one woman he had truly thought he would never see again. The time, albeit brief, had momentarily restored a kind of peace to Dean's character that Sam didn't often see; and, now that the brothers had left Jo behind again, every word that Sam spoke seemed to poke the proverbial bear further. He knew it was more than coincidence- that Dean's sudden shift in mood was related to Jo and the things he had learned from her. Sam also knew that Dean had spent the majority of the previous hours contemplating just how different his life may have been had he only had the courage to tell Jo how he had felt before it had been too late for it to be more than a consolation to a dying woman.

"But that's just it, Dean," Sam replied after a pause, "she _is_ Jo."

"Not really… not-" Dean began, his protestations falling on deaf ears as Sam contorted his own features and shook his head.

"No, just listen," he commanded, his tone authoritative. Dean obediently fell silent, holding up his hands to communicate his compliance.

"There's this theory that, if alternate realities exist, which I think we can pretty much confirm they do at this point… then each of our counterparts are connected by the one soul," Sam explained, his eyes ticking to Dean's face as the elder Winchester allowed the words to sink in. Slowly, a kind of hope was kindled within Dean's eyes, and Sam's heartbeat picked up just a little in response. It had been a very long time since he had seen that look on his brother's face, and he did not want to be the one responsible for dashing it.

"So what would that mean… in idiot terms?" barked Dean, rubbing his jaw absently with the palm of one hand as he squinted ahead into the distance through the windscreen.

"Well, it would mean that we would be fated to encounter the same relationships in each reality and, to a certain extent, our destinies would be similar."

"Our destinies…" Dean repeated, his expression belaying his confusion.

Sam nodded, explaining in a patient tone, "Things like… true callings, events important to history… soul mates."

"Wait, you're not saying…" Dean began, his features stretched taut in alarm by the very inference. Sam laughed softly, shaking his head as he watched his brother almost recoil against the car passenger door.

"Don't pretend, Dean, you're not that good at it," Sam chided, his grin still present as he returned his attention to the highway up ahead, "I can see how much you care about her, and the Dean from this reality must have known that there was something there to even consider settling down, let alone actually doing it."

"True that," Dean mumbled, blowing out a breath between puffed cheeks and raking one hand through his hair almost thoughtfully. "What do you think I should do?"

"Honestly… I have no idea," Sam answered, shrugging as Dean turned the full force of his glare upon his brother. "I just wanted you to have all the facts."

"Gee, thanks Sammy," Dean snarked, rolling his eyes and reaching out for the radio knobs once again. Before his fingers could fully connect with the button, Sam rested a restraining hand atop Dean's and affixed his brother with a serious look.

"But Dean, whatever you do, you better do it fast because sometime in the next day or two we're out of here and then…" Sam trailed off, his eyes momentarily downcast as he allowed the full weight of his words to bear down upon Dean. The older hunter shuddered involuntarily, his throat constricting and his stomach muscles clenching as he considered the thought of being plunged back into a world where a second chance for him no longer existed.

Nodding silently, Dean sat back in his seat to think.

**x-x-x**

_**Lawrence, Kansas**_

_**October 9th 2011**_

Sam heaved a sigh as he drove past the address that Jo had given them, only to discover a couple of police cars and a coroner's vehicle parked up. The neighbours formed a crowd around the Munroe house, huddled together to exchange whispered stories, whilst officers milled about the yard doing their best to keep the ghouls at bay.

"You think Hal's little piece of paradise turned sour?" Dean inquired, unclipping his safety belt as Sam made a u-turn at the end of the cul-de-sac and steered the car back towards the crime scene.

"Looks like it's a definite possibility," Sam replied, easing the car to a crawl before finally parking adjacent to the Munroe residence, which was a far cry in this world to the somewhat dilapidated bungalow they had visited in their own.

Dean peered up at the two storey yellow townhouse with its sprawling white washed porch and let out an appreciative whistle. He vaguely recalled walking by this part of town with his mother as a child, but his limited memories had hardly done justice to the area.

"You wait here, I'm gonna go check this out," Dean said, already half out of the passenger side door. Sam relaxed back against his seat, watching Dean through narrowed eyes as his brother approached the throng of residents, some of whom had ventured out in their silk dressing gowns and pyjamas.

Dean sidled up to an elderly woman clad in curlers who was watching the scene with keen interest, shooting her a smile as he seemingly accidentally bumped her with his elbow.

"Excuse me, ma'am," he declared, deliberately thickening his accent a little. His stare was calculating as the woman gave him the once over before consenting to flash him a smile.

"It's just awful, isn't it?" Dean continued, nodding towards the porch and the gloved officer dusting the door frame for fingerprints. The woman nodded, crossing her arms over her chest and peering up at Dean.

"Terrible," she agreed, her lips twisting into a grimace that illustrated her point, "poor Hal… just about the nicest guy you ever met. He helped so many people."

Dean continued to nod, making soothing and affirmative noises in the back of his throat as he rocked on the balls of his feet, simply waiting for the woman to continue.

"They think it was Ronnie," the woman pressed on, missing the smug smile that formed briefly upon Dean's lips. "I just don't understand. Jenny saw them only last Sunday at church and said what a fine couple they made."

"Do they know why?" Dean prodded, after a few more moments of silence had elapsed. The woman turned to him again, clearly eager to share her own limited knowledge.

"An affair," she hissed, leaning forwards although her tone was less than conspicuous.

"Affair?" Dean repeated, a little bewildered. He had expected something more in the realms of the supernatural, most definitely not the mundane marital issue he know found himself faced with.

"Uh huh," the woman stated, tapping the side of her nose, "Hal's own brother. Lived with them a few months back when he lost his job and fell on hard times. Moved out a little over a month ago. My guess is it all started back then."

"Poor guy," Dean replied, raising both eyebrows as he returned his attention to the porch and discreetly sidled away from his unwitting informant, who had become immersed in the latest titbit of gossip to pass her neighbour's lips.

Dean was back at the car in less than five paces, throwing himself into the passenger seat alongside Sam and securing his safety belt before his brother had had time to properly digest his presence.

"New plan, Sammy," Dean stated, gesturing ahead at the road, "pie time."

**x-x-x**

Dean poured a generous helping of cream onto the top of his wedge of apple pie and wasted little time in digging into the golden brown crust with his spoon. Sam watched, slurping at a mug of coffee that was hot enough to burn the skin from his lips. However, he found himself dominated by the inexplicable urge to occupy his hands, and the mug nestled within them just right.

Both brothers were decidedly nervous, and neither could put their fingers on exactly why they had come to be that way. Sam figured that Dean was lost in thoughts of Jo, but could not ascertain what was not sitting right with him. He had been the one to suggest the case in the first place and yet Sam now found himself filled with a sense of foreboding and even regret at ever having spotted the articles in the newspaper to begin with.

"Something about this isn't right," Sam stated not for the first time as Dean continued to heap pie into his open mouth. A smattering of crumbs flew from his mouth and landed on his chin as he let out a snort of disdain.

"Which part?" he demanded, mouth still crammed full, "the devoted wife murdering her husband, or the fact her husband wasn't actually her husband? How unlucky can one guy get?"

"Well, exactly," Sam said, shaking his head momentarily at the waitress who swooped down upon his mug as soon as he set it down on the table in front of himself. The woman nodded, popping her gum as she wandered off in search of another customer to tend to.

"I'm sorry, you were expecting this to make sense?" Dean checked, leaning towards Sam as he set down his spoon and reached for a napkin. He patted his lips clean and threw the cloth onto the table, glancing around to ensure their privacy before he continued.

"The best we can figure is the Hal from our dimension made some sort of deal with a crossroads demon," Dean hissed, "those things have a history of ending badly."

"I'm not an idiot, Dean," Sam barked, reaching for the sugar shaker and angrily flicking it over his mug. "But usually, a deal yields a better outcome than a few days of happiness and then a bloody death."

Dean shrugged, returning his attention to his pie.

"Maybe he was a crappy deal maker," Dean suggested, avoiding Sam's gaze as he realised how lame his explanation sounded even to his own ears.

"Dean, I know you're… preoccupied, at the moment…"

"Don't go there, dude," Dean warned, pausing only momentarily from his pie to shoot Sam a pointed look, which he acknowledged with a nod.

"Ok, I just think we should take a minute, come up with a new plan…"

"Already got one," Dean replied without missing a beat, shovelling the last piece of pie into his mouth and allowing his eyes to roll into the back of his head as he swallowed the deliciously warm and gooey cinnamon mess.

"Were you planning on consulting me any time soon?" Sam demanded, sitting back in the booth and affixing Dean with an unimpressed glare. Dean nodded, still refusing to look at Sam as he circled his index finger around the cream that remained in the centre of his plate, and then popped it into his mouth before sucking it clean.

Sam wrinkled his nose but ignored the display for the moment.

"We finish up here… by the way - _excellent_ pie… then we grab a stack of newspapers, see if we can't check up on our other Pod People, and maybe pay a little visit to a crossroads for a one on one with our mystery red eyes."

Sam blinked in surprise at his brother, his lip curling slightly.

"Huh… that's actually not a lousy plan," Sam allowed, downing the rest of his coffee in one and coughing as he realised that he had perhaps been a little too liberal with the sugar shaker. Dean beamed, and folded his hands on the table top before him.

"Okay then," Dean enthused, his eyes gleaming with the promise of a kill, "let's go poke some holes in a demon."

**x-x-x**

Dean shook his head slowly as he peered up at the neon bar sign that read _'Randy's'_, and everything suddenly clicked into place.

The Lawrence newspaper had been choc-full of information for the two hunters, including the untimely death of 'family man' Ian Landings the previous day, whose corpse had been discovered floating in a neighbour's pool, inexplicably minus the right arm. Sam had managed to locate several other suspicious articles in assorted local press, and thus their decision to locate the nearest crossroads sooner rather than later was made. When they had eventually pulled onto the grass verge alongside it, Dean had not been at all surprised to find they were practically on the doorstep of the mysterious bar that had been frequented by Hal Munroe, whilst somehow not even existing in their own reality.

"Sammy, I think we skanked that cat bone for nothing," Dean stated, extending one arm and pointing towards the bar, from within which came the sound of stools being drawn across a hardwood floor.

"Of course!" Sam groaned, running both hands through his hair and making a frustrated noise deep in his throat. "We got so caught up in Jo and Bobby, we forgot what we were doing before all this started."

"Drink?" Dean inquired, already beginning to stroll towards the main entrance of the bar, his toes scuffing the dirt experimentally.

"It would be rude not to," Sam answered, his mouth setting into a grim line as he followed behind his brother, discreetly checking to ensure that Ruby's knife still remained in the holster he wore around his shoulder.

Dean pushed open the door, grimacing as the hinges gave a loud, shrieking protest, but he swept into the barroom with all his usual assuredness. Sam was less than a step behind, and he kept one hand concealed within his jacket, where Dean knew Ruby's knife to be positioned in a secret holster.

The olive skinned man who had been busy rearranging stools around the bar looked up with a welcoming smile as his eyes fell upon Dean and Sam, who peered around the room with every sense on red alert. Setting the stool he clutched upright on the floor, the man leaned against the bar and jammed one hand casually into the pockets of his black trousers.

"Randy, I presume?" said Dean, his fingers twitching almost nervously at his side.

The man's grin grew wider, and he surveyed the brothers with wolfish intent.

"Sam, Dean!" he crooned, his hands clapping together to punctuate each name. In the next instant, his eyes glowed a vicious shade of red, and he added in a soft purr, "Welcome."

Dean spun wildly around as the shutters slammed down over the windows, barring the remnants of the evening sunlight from the barroom, and the latch slid across the door, moved by an unseen hand.

The demon slid his fingers up and down the length of his black braces, and affixed the Winchester's with a mocking expression.

"Let's talk."


	8. Chapter 8

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox.  
>communityFAGE_3some/93625/**

_**Chapter Eight**_

Chair legs screeched as two stools flew across the bar floor, slamming into the back of both Sam and Dean's legs, and forcing them into a sitting position. As soon as his backside touched wood, Dean was already bucking and struggling to rise to his feet, only to find that he was held fast to the chair by invisible bonds.

The crossroads demon stared at them, grinning like the Chesire cat on acid as he continued to finger his braces and puff out his chest in pleasure.

"I knew you'd figure it out sooner or later," Randy stated, his teeth glinting in the overhead light, "truth be told, I'm not altogether surprised that it was 'later'."

"Sorry to disappoint," Sam deadpanned, struggling uselessly against the magical bindings that held him to the spot. After several seconds he relaxed, deciding not to waste his energy on fruitless pursuits.

"Well, I guess this is the part where you gloat, reveal your master plan to us, and then think about maybe slitting our throats?" Dean speculated, his eyes trained on the crimson-eyed demon as he strutted the expanse of the bar, his head lolling back in an easy fashion. His responding chuckle was hearty and genuinely amused, although he bobbed his head in agreement.

"I guess it is," he replied, although his lips pressed into a firm, silent line almost immediately.

Dean and Sam exchanged glances, their brows furrowed in confusion as they waited for the demon to do what countless others before him had, and savour the moment in which he had finally gotten the better of the infamous Winchesters.

"What's the matter?" Dean pressed, his voice adopting a note of mock sympathy as he queried, "performance anxiety?"

"I hear it can be a bitch," Sam agreed, flexing his fingers experimentally as he tested the extent of his confinement. He found that he was able to wiggle his hands from side to side, but any attempt to raise them was thwarted instantly by the unseen shackles.

"Laugh it up, boys," Randy conceded, nodding his head and continuing to pace the bar. Disappointingly, it seemed unlikely that he would bite, and something about his demeanour appeared almost nervous. The way he walked back and forth in the space in front of the bar was reminiscent of how a zoo animal paced its enclosure, and Dean watched the demon's movements with sudden renewed interest.

"If I had to hazard a guess, Randy," he finally stated, slouching in his seat and cocking his head to one side as he surveyed the demon, "I'd say you're not the big kahuna running this show after all."

"You would, would you?" the demon countered, his smile still in place as he refused to allow the mask to slip. Dean remained impassive, determined to play the demon at it's own underhanded game.

"Yeah, I would," Dean continued, "I mean, would the next big threat to the world really hang out in some backwater Kansas bar, picking off insurance salesmen who don't even have two kidneys?"

"You tell me, Dean," the demon purred, although his jaw tightened around the smile he appeared to be forcing upon his host's lips.

"I think I just did," answered Dean, a responding smirk flashing quickly across his features.

Randy stared back at the hunter, his fury a quiet burning fire within his eyes. After several seconds, however, he seemed to literally shake off his anger, his whole body shuddering as he finally turned away from his captive.

"Maybe you're right," the demon answered, pausing to draw up a stool from the bar and perch himself on the edge of it. He leaned forwards, his elbows resting on his knees, and propped his chin in his hands.

"That it?" Dean demanded, his lips curling in disgust, "that's all you're giving me to work with here? I mean, c'mon man, have some demonic self-respect. At least brag a little."

"I can brag if you'd like," Randy replied, predatory grin back in place, "I could boast about how I've been cutting deals and yanking folks through a giant portal for weeks before you two dunderheads even caught a whiff of my cologne. I could laugh about how I managed to lure the high and mighty Winchesters into an alternate reality without so much as breaking a sweat."

Suddenly, Randy grew sombre again, and he straightened up in his seat, "But what would be the point in that?"

"For a minion of hell, you're kind of apathetic," Sam accused with a frown. Usually, the latest demon to ensnare them in a trap wastoo reluctant to shut up about their masterful execution of their plans, and the latest horrible manner in which they planned to mutilate, butcher or murder the Winchesters. Therefore, it was a rather novel yet surreal turn of events for the brothers to find themselves faced with a captor who appeared unwilling to say much of anything on the subject.

"I'm gonna go out on a limb, Sammy, and guess Randy here is somewhat of a rookie," Dean teased, crossing his legs as he watched the demon carefully for even the slightest move. He was surprised to see Randy's eyes slip casually and quickly to the wristwatch he wore, before darting back to Dean's face, almost as though he was waiting for a specific moment.

"Promotion just come in?" Sam inquired, joining in the taunts. He continued to subtly test out his bonds, finding that they appeared to be loosening somewhat the more he and Dean rallied at the demon. He wondered in faint amusement if a demon had ever lost control of it's powers before because it's feelings had been hurt.

"You might say that," Randy replied, rolling his shoulders and grimacing as there was an audible crack from his joints. He examined his watch again, although this time with a little less subtlety.

"Are we keeping you from something?" Dean demanded, beginning to grow irritated by the demon's apparent refusal to adhere to the usual bad-guy clichés. Dean had become comfortable over the years with the same old pattern of hunting the monster, trading sarcastic insults with the monster, and then finally slaying the monster. However, their latest foe's company was beginning to make him tetchy, and Dean found himself wishing that the demon would either play along with the unwritten rules, or simply attempt to kill them. Certainly Dean was sure they would find their way out of the current tight spot still with pulses; they had faced far worse odds before and Dean was hardly afraid.

"It's more… what I'm keeping you from, really," said Randy finally, his red eyed gaze befalling Dean and lingering there just a little longer than the hunter was truly comfortable with.

"Care to enlighten me?" growled Dean, leaning forwards to deliberately test his bonds. He found himself held fast against the chair, and he relaxed back in a pantomime of obedience.

"All in good time, all in good time, my man," Randy answered, pausing in order to pour himself a shot from the bottle of rum that rested on the counter by his elbow. He tossed back the glass, which seemed pathetic in his immense hand, and then smacked his lips together in satisfaction.

"Now, where shall we start?" Randy inquired, his grin broad as he glanced from Sam to Dean and back again.

"How about with who you're working for?" Sam suggested. He still twisted against the invisible powers that held him, working his hand into his jacket just far enough so that his fingers could close around the hilt of Ruby's knife. Randy did not notice or if he did, he said nothing.

"Next question," Randy beamed, pouring another shot, which he tossed back as quickly as he had done the first.

"What do you want with us?" Dean demanded, adding with a smirk, "you can assume I'm using 'you' as a euphemism for 'your dick-faced boss'."

"So hostile, Dean," the demon scolded, pursing his plump lips as he poured himself yet another drink. A couple more and Dean was certain that his host would be on the floor, yet the crossroads demon seemed undeterred.

"It's a flaw," said Dean, his gaze sliding across to Sam, who bobbed his head once. "But seriously… why go to all this trouble? Dimension hopping to cut deals for souls that Lucifer probably wouldn't even want cleaning his toilet?"

"You have to look at the bigger picture, Dean," Randy stated, raising his hands in front of his face and forming a rectangle with his fingers, which he then held up in front of Dean with a flourish.

"And that is?" barked Dean, finally beginning to grow somewhat uncertain in the situation. There was something about the demon's behaviour that was starting to unnerve Dean, and the nagging voice present in the back of his own mind was becoming more relentless as the seconds mounted.

"I thought that was obvious," Randy scoffed, shaking his head as though Dean had just failed to answer the most simple of questions, "you."

"Me? How is it me?" Dean demanded, not missing a beat.

"Well, you and your knucklehead brother there," said Randy with a grin that Dean would dearly have liked to have wiped off his face. "This here is all for you. An epic waste of time and resources if you ask me, but what the boss wants, the boss gets."

"And who would 'the boss' be?" interjected Sam, sighing as Randy shook his head in his general direction, a further indication that this was information he did not yet intend to reveal.

"You know, an interesting fact… this reality was created," Randy said, pausing in order to point one finger towards the ceiling before he added, "by them."

"Wait, the angels created a reality? Is that even possible?" Dean's tone was becoming more and more irate as the demon began to open up, much to the creature's delight.

"We're here, aren't we?" Randy countered, rolling his eyes at the hunter's perceived stupidity. "And all thanks to your little feathered friends. See, just before you and your brother shoved Lucifer back into his box, the God squad decided to try somethin'… a little assurance, just in case you boys failed like they thought you would. They created a new reality, where a few things were a smidge different. I guess they wanted to see how it would play out in the grand scheme of things if they tweaked the script. No prizes for guessing how that worked out for them."

"Can't go against God's will," Sam murmured, momentarily distracted by the demon from his task of working the knife free from the holster. He shot a glance at Dean, who was hanging off the demon's every word.

"But the problem with creating a new reality is, in order to fill it with souls, you have to divide the ones you already got," the demon explained, his eyes shining in the dim light as he continued his tale to his enthralled captives.

"Wait, so that's why you've been ganking the dudes you've been pulling through into this reality?" Dean interrupted; his eyes narrowing as understanding dawned fully upon him.

"We can't claim the full soul until both halves have been re-joined," Randy replied with a nod. "It was disappointingly simple, really. Make a deal with the poor schmoes back home, offer them a better life, then once they sign away the soul of their counterpart self, pull a little Freaky Friday switcheroo on them. They think they're cutting the deal of a lifetime. Then, I let them live out a few days of unparalleled bliss before an unfortunate incident befalls them and bam! One full soul in Hell's back pocket."

"Those people had no idea, did they?" Dean demanded, feeling his anger intensify as he realised just how the victims had been duped into believing they were signing themselves up for a better existence.

"Sportsmanship isn't my strong point," Randy conceded, shrugging as he took a few steps closer to Dean and Sam. "I needed your attention. I think we can safely say I have it."

Dean's jaw clenched and he narrowed his eyes as he continued to glare at the demon, who was becoming far too jovial for the older Winchester's liking. He knew that Randy had more up his proverbial sleeve, and Dean found a cold sense of dread beginning to fasten around his heart.

"So, here's where I tell you the master plan in full," Randy stated, starting to bounce on the balls of his feet as he grinned widely at Dean, "whilst we're sitting here, chewing the cud, the boss is back at your place… well, should I say, your place in _this_ reality… cosying up to that hot little blonde piece of ass who died bloody in the real world."

"You son of bitch…" Dean snarled, straining against the chair, which bounced several inches off the floor as Dean bucked and struggled.

"Jo can handle herself," Sam retorted, remaining calm and poised in a direct contrast to Dean, whose eyes had grown wild at the very prospect of the threat against Jo.

"Against the King of Hell?" Randy queried, his lips quirking into a disbelieving smirk as Dean gulped and Sam blanched. "Didn't think so."

"What does Crowley want with Jo?" Dean demanded, sitting back, defeated, and instead affixing Randy with a stare of murderous intent.

"Revenge, mostly," Randy replied, "Crowley wants to see you suffer, Dean, right before he rips out your still beating heart. He already managed to snuff you two morons in this reality, and now all he has to do is…"

"Kill us again?" Dean growled, his disgust evident with the curl of his lip and the snort that escaped him.

"Exactly, now you're getting it," said Randy, his tone almost congratulatory. "See, it's not my job to kill you, Dean. Never was. Just to lure you here and distract you."

"So Crowley could close in on Jo," Sam finished, shaking his head and groaning inwardly as he realised their mistake by ever leaving Jo and Bobby alone.

"Really, I feel sorry for the kid," Randy stated, examining his almost perfectly manicured nails, "she's so broken and depressed and sleep deprived, she's beginning to make Miley look poised and elegant."

He affixed a grin upon Dean as he added, "But I bet she was a sight for sore eyes, huh, Dean?"

"You shut your fu…" Dean began, falling silent as Sam cleared his throat.

"Now what?" barked Sam, twisting in his chair to regard Randy, who had not moved from the spot immediately before them in the last few minutes. The demon smiled, wincing slightly, and then Sam felt the invisible hands that gripped him beginning to relax.

"Now you're free to go," he replied, "by my careful calculations, you got about two and a half hours to make it back to Nebraska. Should arrive just in time to see the boss gut Dean's little whore."

Sam nodded, his gaze dropping to the ground, before he suddenly flew from his chair with the demon killing knife in his hand. Randy's eyes widened as he took in the blade as it flashed through the air in front of his torso, but he had no time to react before Sam buried it up to the hilt in his chest. The demon's body hit the floor like a sack of potatoes, but Sam had yanked the blade free before Randy had even finished convulsing.

"Let's go," Sam panted, breathless, as he watched Dean leap from his seat, his face ashen and his hands shaking. Taking a moment to evaluate Dean's sudden lack of composure, Sam queried, "Want me to drive?"

"No," Dean replied hurriedly, already half way out of the door and heading back towards the abandoned Gemini, "we got two and half hours, Sammy… we'll be there in two."

Understanding the desperation that riddled his brother, Sam merely nodded and slid Ruby's bloodied blade back into its holster. For Dean's sake, he hoped the old car would not fail them.


	9. Chapter 9

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox. **

_**Chapter Nine**_

The fact that the demons had not even bothered to tie her to the chair made Jo inexplicably nervous. Instead, she sat around Bobby's old metallic kitchen table with the wheelchair-bound hunter at her side and the short, smarmy, dark haired demon ring leader opposite, as though they were about to share a couple of beers and play a hand of cards. The three lackeys that the demon had brought with him when he had arrived with a flourish at the scrapyard, stood in an obedient and silent line in front of the kitchen sink. They watched their captives through steely gazes but said nothing, instead leaving it to their boss to talk with the hunters, or rather at them. In all her life, Jo was certain that she had not met another demon fonder of the sound of his own voice than the one who had announced himself as Crowley. He had spent the better part of the last two hours gloating and guffawing, taunting and chuckling, and generally being as much of a douchebag as was possible.

In fact, Jo had grown so tired of his egocentric ramblings that when he once again began to talk, she was too detached from the situation to fully notice. It was not until a meaty palm slammed itself down on the table top in front of her that Jo visibly jumped, and fell free of her reverie.

"I'm sorry, darling," the demon crooned in his raspy, gentlemanly, English accent, "am I disturbing your profound moment of thought?"

His ever present smile was deadly, yet Jo could see how some would easily be duped into thinking it was a sincere gesture of pleasantry. However, she was not so naive.

"Perhaps you're thinking about your poor Dean-o?" Crowley suggested, sticking out his bottom lip in a mock mournful pout and then pretending to wipe away a tear from the corner of his eye.

Jo sat up a little straighter, her right hand creeping towards Bobby and entwining with his fingers, although she highly doubted that he felt either the terror of their situation, nor the comfort of her touch. She swallowed down the sob that was desperately attempting to fight its way out of her mouth, and instead fixed Crowley with a defiant glare that only set the demon off chuckling harder.

"Really love, you're so cute when you're attempting to be threatening," Crowley said, reaching forwards across the table and patting Jo's cheek condescendingly. "It's adorable. I'd even go so far as to say I can see why the infamous ladies' man, Dean Winchester, was so willing to be tamed. You're a riot."

Jo wisely chose to remain silent, still attempting to get the measure of the demon. In his sharp business suit with his arrogant air, he both looked and sounded like a bigger kind of fish than Jo was used to frying. She had been out of the game a long time, and she knew that her skills were rusty at best. Her attempts to fight off the intruders had been somewhat embarrassing, and Jo had been left with little other option than to surrender, or else have her larynx crushed by the largest of Crowley's goons. She had not even had enough forewarning of the attack to conceal Bobby in the panic room, as she had done the handful of other times that something nasty had ventured onto their property since Dean and Sam's deaths.

"Cat got your tongue?" Crowley purred when Jo failed to respond, her eyes simply affixed on the demon's smirk instead.

"What do you want from us?" Jo countered, managing to keep any slight inflections of fear from her voice. Crowley regarded her with a stoic expression, his hands folded on the table in front of him as he leaned back in his seat, causing the metal legs to screech in protest as they ground against the tiled floor. Jo winced despite herself, and she saw a flicker of amusement clearly in Crowley's eyes.

"Truthfully," Crowley began, suddenly rising from his seat and beginning to strut the expanse of the kitchen with his arms behind his back, "I couldn't give a rat's fanny about you and the crippled old goat. What I really want is to watch Dean and Sam suffer… again."

"Dean and Sam aren't here," she replied, clenching her jaw in an attempt to prevent herself from giving in to the angry tears she felt welling in the corners of her whiskey brown eyes.

"Oh I know, but they will be," Crowley said, waving one hand in a dismissive gesture, "you see… _Mrs. Winchester_… Dean has never quite gotten over your unfortunate passing, and I rather doubt he's about to throw away his last chance at happiness by allowing me to rip your lungs out through your nostrils."

"They know you're here," Jo murmured, unable to prevent the tears from slipping down her already clammy cheeks as the puzzle pieces began to slot into place in her mind. "This was all a set up. All the murders… you just wanted the Winchesters in this reality."

"Bingo!" Crowley crooned in delight, pointing one index finger at Jo and winking, "you're catching on."

"But why?" she demanded, her fury suddenly rising like a tidal wave and setting her eyes ablaze. She stared at Crowley through two, narrowed, molten pools, and her upper lip curled into a sneer.

"Because, my dear, those two Neanderthals have been the bloody thorn in my bloody side for as long as I can remember. I have big plans, and the Winchester brothers have a track record for crapping royally on top of my bestest and biggest plans," Crowley snarled, growing more and more agitated as he continued, "the angels creating this reality was like a dream come true; a world where Dean and Sam had never so much as gotten a whiff of the King of Hell. Killing them was almost too easy to be satisfying."

Jo's head jerked up and her eyes widened, her fingers clasping the edge of the table until her skin whitened and she lost all feeling in her hands. She could no longer hold back the tears, which fell in torrents that splashed onto the front of the sweater that had once belonged to her husband; the husband that Crowley had murdered.

"It was you…" she hissed, barely able to focus through the immense haze of her tears, "you were the demon."

Chuckling gleefully, Crowley cleared his throat and, when he spoke, his voice was a mock, deep rumble with a faint Southern drawl attached, "'Don't worry, sweetheart… we'll be back before dessert.'"

Jo covered her mouth with a trembling hand, no longer caring about her dignity as loud sobs tore from her chest. She thought often about the last time Dean had ever set foot outside their door; of his smile and cocky mirth, the way his palm had brushed against her cheek, and of the apple pie that she had left on the counter for almost a week after his passing, until spores of growing mould had forced her to toss it into the trash.

"It was almost disappointingly easy, really," Crowley stated, adopting a bored tone that sent a shudder down Jo's spine, "but the poetry of shooting them with their own guns made up for the lack of challenge, somewhat."

His lips peeled back from his teeth, forming a wide and skeletal grin that only made him seem more dangerous. Pointing his index finger in Jo's direction, Crowley mimed the firing of a handgun, his eyes never once wavering from the blonde's face.

Jo flew around the table before she had even fully registered what she was doing, launching herself at Crowley and aiming a right hook at his nose that would have doubtlessly shattered bone had it connected. However, Crowley was a deal quicker than Jo would have anticipated a man of his stature to be, and he seized her arm mid-air, using the momentum behind her blow to spin her around and drag her backwards into his chest. His arms fastened around her, pressing her body rigidly to him, and he let out a peel of laughter that ignited Jo's rage further. She struggled and thrashed until Crowley tightened his grip and, both hearing and feeling her ribs begin to protest, Jo forced herself to still in his arms.

"I'm going to enjoy watching them squirm on my hook," Crowley whispered, his lips brushing against Jo's earlobe as though he were murmuring tenderly to his lover rather than antagonising his captive, "and I'm going to enjoy gutting you from gill to gill right in front of Dean. Then once I'm done, maybe I'll fillet his eyeballs. I feel the creative juices flowing already."

"I… will… kill… you…" Jo growled, forming her words as best she could given the hold that Crowley had on her, and the way he seemed able to place his arm just so breathing became difficult yet not impossible.

Crowley only laughed, a merry twinkle in his eye that Jo was oblivious to given her position. He turned to one of his henchman, a tall, skinny man with a vacant black eyed stare, who had been standing next to the refrigerator. With one nod from Crowley, the lackey took several steps forwards, a grin beginning to bloom on his lips.

"You have spirit," Crowley admonished almost admiringly as he wrenched Jo around so that her gaze could befall the scene about to play out in front of her, "I'm going to enjoy breaking it."

Jo's mouth dropped open as realisation struck her, but she was powerless to do much else but watch as the demon dropped down by Bobby's chair. There was a flash of something metallic, and the demon's hand whipped so fast through the air that his fingers and the blade he clutched in them became nothing more than a blur.

The small but effective knife slid across Bobby's throat as though his flesh was butter, and the deep tear that it created spilled a wave of crimson down the front of the crisp shirt that Jo had dressed him in only that morning.

Bobby let out a few garbled choking sounds, his body twitching horribly, and yet his eyes still bore no recollection of the terrible thing that had befallen him. The blood pooled on his shirt, some splattering onto the floor like raindrops, until after several seconds, Bobby's eyes took on a truly glassy appearance, and his head slid forwards.

It was then that Jo finally realised she was screaming.

**x-x-x**

"Come on… come on… damn it, Jo… pick up!" Dean wrenched the cell phone, which he had acquired by questionable means at a local gas station, from his ear, and proceeded to throw it angrily into the back of the car. It hit the floor with a dull thud, but Dean was unconcerned, his attention focused grimly on the highway up ahead.

Sam shot a nervous glance at his brother, unable to stop his own legs from bouncing up and down repeatedly as he considered the many possible reasons as to why Jo was refusing to answer any of Bobby's phones.

"Maybe she's in the shower or…" Sam began, his tone soft and wholly unconvincing. At a single glare from Dean, he closed his mouth, bobbing his head in understanding at the expression that dominated his brother's features.

"She'll be ok," Sam soothed, his eyes on the road now as he found himself unable to meet Dean's gaze, partly for fear that his words would prove nothing more than platitudes.

"She better be, Sammy…" Dean murmured, his knuckles whitening around the wheel as he pressed his foot closer to the accelerator pedal, "because I don't think I could survive losing her again."

"Dean…" Sam began, concern clouding his face as he leant closer to his brother, who simply tossed his head in warning.

"Don't Sammy, just don't."

"We'll make it," Sam reassured, striving to ensure that his voice reflected the certainty in his words.

Dean's eyes never once diverted from the sparse traffic, and he simply mumbled under his breath, "I hope you're right, dude."

Shaking his head in an attempt to dispel his thoughts, Dean hunkered further down over the wheel.

In one thing at least, he had already been defeated, for try as he may, Dean could not banish thoughts of shotguns, bloody sidewalks, and hellhounds, from his mind.


	10. Chapter 10

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox. **

_**Chapter Ten**_

They needed back-up.

Dean was acutely aware of this fact, and yet he was powerless to do anything about it. So he simply drove, pushing the car to its limits and beyond in his desperation to reach Jo before their time was up.

He voiced his concerns to Sam, who acknowledged them with a frown and a nod, and the rather unhelpful response that all those who could be considered as trustworthy cavalry were either cold in the ground or else incapacitated in some other way. It seemed, no matter the reality, some things never changed for the Winchesters.

That was when Dean decided to call for Castiel. He was unsurprised when his calls went unheeded, although that did not stop him from screaming the angel's name repeatedly and then pounding the wheel in fury when he refused to show. Castiel was unreliable of late, and Dean had not truly expected his prayers to be answered. Still he relished bellowing into the ether all the things he would like to do to the angel, starting with pinning him down by the wings like an oversized butterfly so that he could beat the snot out of him. Dean had gotten so carried away by his ranting that he had almost ploughed the car into the side of an oncoming SUV until Sam, who was adamant that he had been involved in enough RTA's for one lifetime, had wrestled the wheel out of his brother's hand and directed the car into a layby.

They sat in half silence for several seconds, their own noisy breathing and the splutter of the engine ruining the effect of complete quiet. Finally, Dean shook his head and buried his face in his hands, everything about his body language alerting Sam to the fact that he was on the verge of admitting defeat.

Sam bristled, shaking his head at his brother's stupidity, although Dean could not acknowledge the gesture from his position.

"You're giving up on her?" he demanded, turning his head away from Dean in disgust. "I don't believe you, man."

"You shut your mouth, Sam," Dean growled, his head whipping up and his eyes affixing on Sam's face, drawn to the curl of his lip. He found disappointment etched upon Sam's features, and it only served to fuel Dean's anger.

"She died saving your ass," Sam retorted, wondering just how far he could go before he should prepare himself for the sting of Dean's fist meeting his jaw, "and here you are, second chance right in front of you, and you're just going to quit on her when she needs you the most."

"You got no idea what you're talking about!" Dean yelled, his face turning an impressive shade of purple as he glared at his brother. He jabbed one finger at Sam's chest, "No matter what I do here, we're going to lose. We already did once in this messed up reality."

"You don't know that, Dean," Sam countered, shaking his head in earnest, "but you do know what I'd give for a second chance to save Jess… what Dad would have given for a second chance to save Mom?"

"What can I do, Sammy?" demanded Dean, his eyes conveying his despair to Sam as clearly as any words could. "Cas isn't answering, we got no back-up here, and I'm pretty certain we can't just stroll up to the front door and expect things to go our way."

Sam fell silent, his brow suddenly furrowing as he considered Dean's argument. The seed of a plan was beginning to take root in his mind, and Sam scrabbled in the glove compartment to locate a notepad and pen.

"Dude, what are you…" Dean began, perplexed by Sam's erratic behaviour. However, his brother simply shook his head, shaggy bangs falling into his face as he hunkered over the paper he had found, and quickly began to write out the alphabet on each sheet. Dean scowled, watching as Sam finished up all twenty-six letters on individual pieces of paper, and then proceeded to scrawl just two more words separately; yes and no.

Dean frowned, a certain degree of understanding finally beginning to fill him, although it was still unclear as to just which spirit Sam Winchester sought to contact, and exactly to what ends.

"Dean, how do you feel about Jo?" Sam demanded, finally looking up from his task to affix Dean with the most probing stare he had ever had the misfortune to be pinned under. Dean shifted in his seat, shaking his head in discomfort as he felt his palms begin to sweat.

"Dude, is this really the time to…" he began, blinking in shock as Sam slammed one palm down hard on the dashboard, causing the car alarm to strike up an almost pitiful wail.

"Just answer the God-damn question for once in your life, Dean," commanded Sam, his tone carrying such authority that Dean did not even blanch as his reply spilled from his lips.

"I love her. More than I've ever loved anything in this screwed up, demon-whipped world," Dean stated, his tongue darting out from between his teeth and licking his lips nervously, "and now that I've seen what could have been, I don't want to leave here without her. I _can't_ leave here without her."

With a grim nod, Sam simply replied, "That's kind of what I was hoping."

**x-x-x**

Just when Jo Winchester had thought that her world was already lying in ruins around her, the Universe managed to bring the last of her life crashing down in spectacular style; and Jo was pissed to say the least.

She remained in the chair next to Bobby's prone and pale body, although she refused to look at him for fear that she would break down again. Jo knew that in order to survive the night, she would need to hold on to her anger instead. If Jo was going down, she would not do so without a fight, just the way her husband would have wanted it. One thing that she was certain of was that, even if she did not make it until dawn, she would be taking a demon named Crowley along with her as the very last thing she did.

The self-confessed King of Hell was standing with his back to Jo, gazing out across the lot through the kitchen window as he swirled a tumbler of Bobby's scotch around in one hand. His expression was vaguely pensive but unreadable for the most, and Jo continued to allow her gaze to bore figurative holes into his back. Her rage was so immense and dominating that Jo could almost taste it on her tongue, and she ached now for the thrill of the showdown that she knew was impending.

Crowley was either oblivious or merely unconcerned, as he continued to sip at his liquor without so much as awarding Jo a glance.

Finally, after several more minutes of silence, he spoke up; his voice like nails against a chalkboard to Jo.

"The waiting is always the worst part," he began, his glass clinking as he set it down on the counter and then spun around on his heel to face Jo, "I just get so bored, you know?"

Jo fought to keep her expression as neutral and impassive as possible, having realised quite some time ago that Crowley was getting off on her more passionate reactions. Although every fibre of her being screeched at her to throw herself across the room and bury one of the kitchen knives up to its hilt in his sternum, she knew that such actions would only prove fruitless, and so Jo waited patiently for the back-up she was near certain would arrive.

"I'm sure you won't have to wait much longer," Jo replied, dropping her eyes to examine her palms splayed out on the table before her as Crowley only grinned. She could not bear to witness the demon's joy any longer, and so Jo busied herself with beginning to count the floor tiles, carefully ignoring the ones that were sprayed with Bobby's congealed blood. She had not even made it to one hundred before the sound of tyres squealing drew her back into the present.

Crowley let out a low, delighted chuckle, reaching for his tumbler and throwing the remainder of the scotch down his throat before moving into the centre of the room. He nodded at two of his lackeys and they headed out into the hallway wordlessly, leaving Jo, Crowley and Bobby's murderer alone in the kitchen.

"Looks like Dean is doing the sensible thing for once in his life and coming through the front door," Crowley stated, back at the window now as he watched Sam and Dean leap out of the car, only to be accosted by his demons. However, much to Crowley's surprise, neither of the Winchesters appeared poised to resist, instead raising their arms high above their heads and offering almost companionable smiles. The demons swarmed forwards, searching both of the brothers from head to toe for concealed weapons, but appearing to find none. It was almost as if they had once and for all conceded to surrender, and Crowley could not help the smile of anticipation that wound its way across his lips. The demon king watched with an odd sensation swirling around the pit of his stomach as his henchmen shoved the Winchesters in front of them and frogmarched them towards the Singer house. Their footfalls were heavy on the rickety, wooden steps, and they burst into the kitchen before Crowley had properly had time to affix his customary smirk in place.

Jo sucked in a noisy breath at the sight of Dean, her hands latching on to the edge of the table as she visibly prevented herself from rising to her feet and running headlong into his arms. Dean peered at her longingly across the room, before his eyes ticked to Bobby and the pools of blood now surrounding the old former hunter. Dean's jaw locked in anger, and he let out a low growl as he rounded on Crowley.

"You evil bastard," he accused, his chest tightening at the sight of the man who had served as his father figure for several decades lying prone in his own blood.

"I'm the King of Hell, what were you expecting?" Crowley inquired, almost innocently. One of his lackeys let out a chuckle, but Crowley shot him a dirty look that immediately both demanded and secured his silence.

"Well, here we are," Dean stated, his voice gruff as he glared directly at the demon, who was rocking on the balls of his feet in anticipation.

"Congratulations, you got us right where you want us," Sam agreed, pausing only to offer Jo the smallest of smiles. She nodded at him, confirming her own wellbeing, and Sam looked away, instantly content.

"It does seem like my careful planning has paid off," Crowley conceded, pursing his lips as he looked from Sam to Dean and back again. He drew in a slow, steady breath, adding brightly, "But I'm not one to count my chickens, and all that. So boys, the question becomes… what's the catch?"

There were several moments of silence, so long and drawn out that Crowley began to consider the possibility that he had, for once, over-estimated the Winchesters, and they had failed to push any contingency plans up their leather sleeves. However, Crowley frowned as he noted, from the corner of his eye, that Jo had begun to shiver almost uncontrollably from her position around the kitchen table, and the breaths she puffed out had become white smog, visible to the naked eye.

Crowley shot a look at Sam, whose expression was largely unreadable. He was thoroughly unprepared, however, for the tall and imposing figure that flickered into view at his side, looking pale, furious, and hell bent on revenge.

As Jo let out a strangled gasp that almost drew Crowley's attention, the ghost of Dean Winchester hissed menacingly, "Me."


	11. Chapter 11

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox. **

_**Chapter Eleven**_

It was an inopportune moment to allow her feelings to catch up with her, but as Jo Winchester stared at the ghost of her dead husband, murderous intent scrawled across his features, she felt the tears begin to prickle at the corners of her eyes, and the bile rise in the back of her throat. After several seconds, and as a consequence of the growing tightness in her chest, Jo realised she had been holding her breath, and she let it out in a great whoosh before gripping onto the table in front of her for support.

She could not tear her gaze away from Dean's spirit, who blinked in and out of view like an old home movie playing on a projector. He was a stark contrast to the Dean from the other reality; he stood in the kitchen doorway looking solid, tanned, and very much alive.

"Touché," Crowley admonished, his expression devoid of even a shred of fear as his calculating gaze swept up and down Dean's spirit, "but you know you can't actually hurt me, right?"

The smile that claimed Dean's pale lips was wolfish, and when he finally spoke again his voice was full of promise.

"You wanna test that theory?" he growled, flickering from view one second only to appear the next in front of the demon who had claimed Bobby's life. Before the demon could utter a sound, Dean had plunged his arm deep into his chest cavity until it was buried up to his elbow. The demon's head dropped back and his mouth fell open as he released a howl of pure agony. Dean's spirit gritted his teeth and several seconds later he retracted his arm. Clutched tight in his hand was a swirling, writhing mass of black smog, which Dean proceeded to pull from the host's body as though he were unravelling a ball of yarn. The host dropped to his knees before slumping over, unconscious, and all eyes in the room fell upon the demon contained in Dean's hand.

"That's… that's not possible…" Crowley stammered, his eyes widening a little in betrayal of the unease that had begun to creep up inside him.

Dean's spirit let out a low, throaty chuckle, "Piss off a dead guy enough, and you haven't even scratched the surface of what's possible."

Pulling his arm back as though he was about to toss a baseball, Dean's ghost flung the demonic entity towards the ceiling, where it almost seemed to dissipate in a ring of flames upon contact. The king of Hell swallowed hard.

Turning to Crowley, Dean demanded, "Who's next?"

There were several moments of perfect peace immediately before chaos descended upon the room. Sam wheeled around and grabbed the demon lackey closest to him, before slamming his bald head into the doorjamb. At his side, the living version of Dean Winchester similarly accosted the demon that had been poised at his elbow. The Winchesters had indeed forgone their weapons to enter the house, but each of the brothers was as deadly in battle with their bare hands alone as they were when armed to the hilt.

Dean's spirit flickered out of view again, and Crowley seized the opportunity to stride across the room to a shell shocked Jo. She barely had time to raise her wide eyed gaze before Crowley's hand had clamped down on her shoulder. He hauled her unceremoniously to her feet, sending the chair she had been sitting in sliding back across the floor.

Crowley was clearly desperate to regain his control over the situation, and he knew that Jo was his leverage to do such. However, he did not bank upon the man he had murdered suddenly shimmering into being in front of him. Dean seized Crowley's collar, his fingers finding purchase on the cloth instead of passing straight through as the demon had hoped they might. On instinct, Crowley released Jo, and she dropped back behind the ghost whose single purpose seemed to be her defence.

Leaning down into Crowley's face, Dean's ghost spat furiously, "Get the hell away from my wife."

His arm shot out, and Crowley flew across the kitchen, his body slamming into the yellow cupboards attached to the wall. Wood splintered and fell, along with the demon, and Dean turned his eyes upon Jo. She gasped, taking in the charcoal grey pallor of her husband's skin, and the slight blue tinge that affected his lips. She could not control the tears, but Jo continued to stare up into those same green retinas, transfixed.

"Upstairs, sweetheart," Dean's spirit instructed, his voice dropping to a whisper as he added, "in the lock box on top of the closet. You know what you're looking for."

Suddenly regaining her senses as Sam let out a yell, Jo nodded and sprang into life. She dashed out of the kitchen at record speed, the grunts and crashes and howls emanating from the kitchen hot on her heels as she made short work of the stairs.

She reached the landing and flung herself down the narrow corridor, making straight for the bedroom that she had once shared with her husband. She slammed the door closed behind her, taking a moment to slide in place the bolt that she had once mocked the presence of, declaring it useless to deter anything even vaguely threatening for more than a moment. However, given the circumstances, Jo would take even that one moment, and hope that it would be enough to help her gain the upper hand.

The fight below continued to rage, and Jo did her best to ignore the living Dean's pained groans as she dragged a chair across the floor to the closet. She flung open the doors and mounted the chair somewhat precariously, almost toppling straight over in her haste but managing to regain her balance at the last second. Her hands went straight to the top shelf, and Jo began to turn out t-shirts, pants, and sweaters without even the faintest regard for the mess she was making as she searched desperately for the lock box that Dean had warned her about. Finally, Jo's fingers closed around the cold metal, and she let out a sigh of relief.

That was the moment that the door flew inwards, ripped clean off its hinges by Crowley, who stood the other side of the frame with a twisted smile upon his face. With a faint sense of satisfaction, Jo noted the beads of perspiration that had formed on his forehead, but this was all she had time to do as the demon extended a hand towards her and her body was smashed against the opposing wall.

Jo let out a cry of pain, tasting blood in her mouth and releasing that she had likely bitten down on her tongue when her body had impacted with the plaster. Crowley raised one finger at Jo, shaking his head from side to side and tutting as though he were scolding a particularly naughty child.

"Someone's been a bad girl," he mocked, quirking his brow only slightly. As a consequence of the subtle action, Jo found herself wrenched forwards and then slammed back into the wall once again. A framed wedding print of her and Dean clattered to the carpet, the glass that protected the image shattering on impact, but Jo's eyes were fixed firmly on the lock box that had tumbled from her hand when Crowley had begun his attack.

The small, grey box was nestled just under the bed, mostly out of view, and thus more than likely invisible to the demon. Jo thanked heaven for small mercies, but her gratitude to any higher power was short-lived as Crowley flung her back against the wall again with only the faintest twitch of his lips.

"Beg me to stop," Crowley ordered, although his tone was masked by an almost jovial sounding air. Jo glared at him through a tangle of honey-blonde curls, shaking her head defiantly.

"Go back to hell, you murdering bastard," she snarled, crying out again as Crowley clenched one hand into a fist, and she felt her ribcage beginning to constrict.

"Never been much of a lady, have you, Joanna?" crooned Crowley with a chuckle as he sidestepped around the foot of the bed and came to a direct standstill in front of Jo. He leaned closer towards her, his whole body almost bristling with excitement as he breathed in deep the intoxicating scent of her fear.

"Dean refused to beg too," Crowley revealed, his teeth pealing back from his gums in a shark-like manner, "but he begged for Sam's. Then I shot him anyway. Good times."

"You won't win," Jo hissed, forcing her own head back against the wall and sucking in a few steadying breaths.

"Maybe not," Crowley answered, shrugging unconcernedly, "but you can bet your pretty little arse that I won't lose either."

"We'll see about that."

Crowley's head whipped around as Dean's voice filled the room, and the demon barely had time to react before the oldest Winchester had flung himself at him, tackling him to the ground. Immediately released, Jo fell to the floor, grunting as she landed atop shards of glass and splinters of wood. However, she forced herself up onto shaky feet, stumbling across the floor and throwing herself half under the bed as Crowley and Dean grappled.

It did not take the demon long to gain the upper hand in the fray, such was the nature of his power, and Dean was on his knees and screaming in pain in what seemed to be the blink of an eye. Crowley jumped to his feet, standing over Dean with a smile that was so unbearably smug that Dean Winchester sincerely hoped it would not be the very last thing he saw. He gritted his teeth against the agony of whatever Crowley was doing to his body, which felt very much akin to all his vital organs being shredded from the inside with a cheese grater.

"You were saying… Dean?" Crowley finally purred, taking a moment to recover his breath before he directed the barb at the hunter, who was wincing so hard that his eyes were almost completely closed. Crowley curled one hand into a fist, and Dean let out a roar, certain that he had felt something somewhere inside pop. A trickle of blood began to leak from his nose, and Dean felt the familiar claws of desperation begin to seize him.

"He was saying…" Jo replied coolly, "bets are off, asshole."

Crowley turned just in time to see Jo standing in front of him, the Colt raised before her, a satisfied smile stretched across her lips, and with the grim-faced ghost of Dean Winchester standing behind her.

"Oh sh…." was all that Crowley had time to utter, before Dean's spirit rested one large hand on his wife's shoulder, and she squeezed the trigger harder than she had ever done before in her entire life.

The bullet left the nose of the gun as if in slow motion before it struck its mark straight in the forehead, and Crowley crumpled to the floor. His body convulsed, wracked by electricity, seizing violently for what seemed like an impossible amount of time. When the current ceased flowing, Jo took a hesitant step forward, positioning herself above the body as though she were checking that her aim had indeed been true. She found that Crowley's eyes were frozen wide open, his mouth was stuck in a pleasing 'o' of surprise, and his expression was vaguely fearful. After all that he had put her through, even 'vaguely' was enough for Jo Winchester.

The Colt slipped through her fingers and, before it had even made contact with the carpeted floor, Jo collapsed into the waiting arms of her dead husband.


	12. Chapter 12

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox. **

_**Chapter Twelve**_

It was as Jo Winchester pulled the last white sheet she owned from the linen closet that she fell apart.

Back when she and Dean had first met, Bobby's closet had been overflowing with delicate white cotton sheets, which he had insisted had been a favourite of his late wife, Karen. The first sheet had swathed Ash's body, the next Rufus', and then two more for Sam and Dean; her mother's body had been so badly burned by the fire set in the roadhouse that she had never required a proper hunter's funeral, although they had a set aside a sheet for her just the same, and burned it with a surviving bundle of her clothes inside. After Rufus, Jo had stopped buying white sheets, purposefully staying away from them in the store because, to a hunter, white was often the colour of death.

Jo was sick of building pyres, of watching those she loved burn like they had never mattered in the first place, and of the exhausting weight of grief that rested on her shoulders. It was Sam who eventually found her, summoned by quiet sobs, and he held her as years of sorrow poured out of her until her eyes were red and her cheeks swollen. The living Dean had stayed downstairs, grappling with his desire to comfort Jo versus his ability to cause her more pain.

After she had gathered the courage to stand, to keep moving forward both figuratively and literally, Dean and Sam had built a pyre for Bobby, whilst the ghost of Jo's dead husband looked on.

And as the old man burned, three very separate paths were taken.

**x-x-x**

When Dean's spirit had flickered from view as the hunters stood around Bobby Singer's pyre, Jo had somehow just known that she would find him in their old bedroom, and thus it was the first place she forced herself to look. She knew that goodbye was inevitable, and Jo saw no point in drawing out the process, reasoning that the longer they waited, the harder she would fall later.

Jo pushed the door open gently, unsurprised to see Dean's ghost seated on the edge of their bed, his eyes affixed on a crack in the ceiling that had snaked through the plaster over a year ago. Hearing, or perhaps sensing, her enter, Dean said apologetically, "Never did get around to fixing that."

Jo's brown eyes followed his automatically, and she felt the corners of her lips twitch into a wry smile as she realised that only _her_ Dean could visit her from beyond the grave to rue his failed home improvement skills.

"Doesn't matter anymore," Jo replied, her voice soft and her whole body tensed as she lowered herself down at Dean's side, "I doubt I'll stay on here much longer."

Dean turned, arching a brow at Jo, who let out a sigh as she took in the grey pallor of his skin.

"You have plans?" Dean inquired, not bothering to feign nonchalance. They had reached a point in their relationship long ago where any pretence had been dropped in favour of the truth, no matter how cold, hard or ugly that may prove to be.

"I don't have much of anything now," Jo said, and tears pooled once more at the corners of her eyes as she reached out a hand to her husband. Dean's head dropped, and he watched in silence as Jo stretched her fingers towards his chest, knowing that she ached to place her palm over his heart as she had once done out of habit many months before. Instead, the tips of Jo's fingers passed through Dean's torso, and she shuddered as the cold snaked up her entire arm.

"I miss you so much, Dean," she breathed, her vision blurring as a consequence of the tears that finally spilled over her lashes. "Sometimes it feels like I can't breathe… I…"

"Shhh," Dean soothed, sidling closer to Jo and extending his right hand. She watched with a frown, expecting more of the same, infuriating consequences to their attempts at physical contact. However, Dean's brow creased and his nose wrinkled with the effort of concentration as he reached out towards his wife's damp cheek, and rested his palm against her skin. Jo sucked in a sharp breath, her eyes widening as she regarded Dean, whose features knitted together with such intensity that it was almost comical. Jo barely had time to lean into his touch, however, before he let out a small cry and his fingers slid through the apple of her cheek. Nonetheless, Jo offered him a smile, content and thrilled to have felt his rough, calloused skin against hers once more, even if only for the briefest time.

"Been practicing," Dean explained, his grin almost sheepish. "Not to go all Swayze on you."

"I'm so sorry I didn't know you were here," Jo said forlornly, the expression that crossed her face bordering on guilty. Dean shook his head, holding her under a firm gaze.

"Not your fault, sweetheart," he stated with confidence, looking around the room pointedly as he added, "it's not like you haven't been busy."

"I should have realised, Dean," answered Jo immediately, chewing her lip in the pause that followed her protest. "If it'd been me, there's no way that you wouldn't."

"Hey, we can't know that. You've been taking care of Bobby, the house, a handful of dumb-ass hunters, and the yard alone, not to mention grieving my sorry but sexy ass," Dean said, a grin playing across his blue tinted lips as he teased her. However, his expression grew sombre, and Jo shuddered as the air around them seemed to become colder.

"Besides, I haven't exactly been the most forthcoming supernatural presence," Dean murmured, looking away now as though it had all become too much. "Guess I was ashamed."

"Ashamed of being a ghost?" Jo inquired, confusion rife in her tone, "why…"

"No," Dean interjected, shaking his head before drawing his gaze back to Jo's face, "I was ashamed that I let you down, Jo. Do you remember when I asked you to marry me?"

Jo nodded, and for just a second, the stress and the years melted away from her face, and she was as radiant as the moment that Dean Winchester had produced a pawn shop ring from the back pocket of his jeans.

"Pizza, six pack, and side one of Zeppelin VI," Jo breathed, giggling at the memory of their post hunt celebration, which had quickly turned into a celebration of an altogether different kind. Her cheeks coloured a little at the sudden reminder of kissing the Dean from the other reality when those same words had spilled from his lips, but if her husband noticed, he made no comment.

" 'All I ask for when I pray, steady rollin' woman gonna come my way. Need a woman gonna hold my hand, won't tell me no lies, make me a happy man,'" Dean sang softly, largely off-key and with his voice trembling in a telling fashion.

Jo recalled how he had sung those same words to her that night, right before he had pulled her flush to his chest, looked her square in the eyes, and produced a modest looking diamond band from the velvet box that had been burning a hole in his back pocket for six weeks.

"I'm sorry, darlin'," Dean murmured, his eyes boring into Jo's as he spoke, "I promised you everything when I married you, and all I gave you was more heartache. When I died, that light… that spirit you got that makes you sexy and beautiful and kinda scary all at the same time… it died too. I could never leave you broken, Jo."

Jo nodded, her bottom lip trembling as she regarded her husband for what she knew would be the final time for the foreseeable future.

"I don't want to lose you again, Dean," Jo cried, choking on the sob she was struggling to hold back as Dean began to flicker in and out of her view. She could almost see the print on the wallpaper behind him, and Jo clawed at the sheets at her side in protest, although she knew there was nothing tangible she could do to ensure that he could stay.

"You don't have to," Dean murmured, and with a smile, he vanished from view.

The temperature in the room rose by several degrees, but Jo did not notice.

**x-x-x**

"About time you showed up," Dean stated as the tell-tale flutter of wings resounded throughout the scrap yard. He did not have to glance over his shoulder to know that Castiel was already standing there, clad in his trench coat and his best pensive look.

However, after several moments of silence, Dean wheeled around on the angel, taking a step towards him and jabbing him in the chest with his index finger.

"Where the hell were you?" Dean demanded, his voice dripping with anger and his expression murderous. "I can't even begin to describe how crappy this day has been, and I swear to God, Castiel, if it's not good news, you're gonna be picking your teeth out your ass cheeks for the next week."

Cas cocked his head as he regarded Dean, "I do not believe that threat is a plausible one, Dean."

However, at the glare he received from the hunter, Cas hastily drew in a breath, and clasped his hands in front of himself.

"I apologise for my… tardiness…" Cas said, bowing his head at Dean in a gesture of appeasement, "it took me a while to pinpoint your exact location since you were no longer in our reality, and when I did I was… detained."

"Detained?" Dean repeated, his teeth gritted as he demanded angrily, "by who?"

"By a mutual friend," Cas answered after some hesitation. Although Dean quirked a brow in questioning, Castiel ploughed on, "As you know, this dimension was created by Zachariah as a contingency plan. However, it was against God's will…"

"Well, God's not home right now," Dean snarled, shaking his head and rubbing his forehead with his palm as the effects of the day began to catch up with him.

"He is… always watching," Cas stated, almost managing a degree of diplomacy. Dean's head whipped up and he glared at the angel, who swallowed audibly.

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Dean pressed, taking a step towards Cas and feeling somewhat triumphant when the angel retreated back a pace.

"I have been ordered to bring you and Sam home before this reality is closed down," said Cas, watching Dean carefully for signs of a reaction, "Heaven never anticipated Crowley being able to use this world as a weapon against us."

"Well, Crowley's dead," Dean growled.

"But there will be others, as equally ambitious and skilled," Castiel countered, "I am sorry, Dean, but this world cannot be allowed to remain."

"You're talking about ending billions of innocent lives on a stupid angelic whim," growled Dean, finally grasping Cas' collar in both hands and hauling the angel off the ground. However, if the move brought Castiel any discomfort, he did not show it, instead observing Dean with his usual stoicism.

"I am talking about setting right a great wrong," Cas replied patiently, although his tone was not without compassion as he gazed into Dean's eyes, "these are souls split in two as a means to win a war. Zachariah had no right to do this. This reality will be destroyed, and the two souls will simply merge as one again."

Dean released his friend, turning on his heel and beginning to pace in the dust just in front of an ancient, burnt out Mercedes.

"And… what about… what about the people who are alive here, but not in our reality?" Dean demanded, wheeling around and facing Cas with such desperation present on his face that the angel sucked in a breath of surprise. "What happens to them?"

"They will remain dead, as was intended in the true reality," he answered, his eyes dipping to the ground. Dean let out a hearty sigh, his palm swiping at his eyes as he turned away from the angel and struggled to regain his composure.

"Unless…" Castiel stated, his voice shattering the tension like a sledgehammer.

"Unless?" Dean repeated, his head whipping up as he started out in desperation towards Cas, his hands forming fists at his side.

"Unless that person was to be in our reality when this one is destroyed."

**x-x-x**

Sam had watched Dean pace the yard for hours, and when he had grown tired of that pursuit, he had seated himself round the kitchen table and listened to Jo sob from her bedroom upstairs. There was little Sam could do, he knew, to help either his brother or his friend, and so Sam simply waited to be given some kind of direction that may at least make him useful. Finally, he had set about with a bucket of hot water and a scrubbing brush to attempt to lift the blood stains from the kitchen tile. After half an hour of vigorous scrubbing, just when he was prepared to admit to himself that clean-up was not his strong point, Dean finally stormed into the kitchen, throwing the door open wide and not even flinching as it slammed against the adjacent wall.

Sam looked up from the suds he was elbow deep in and sat back on his heels, not caring that he could feel the bleach soaking through his jeans, which had already been torn in the fray.

"Spoke to Cas," Dean ground out through tightly gritted teeth. His rubbed the back of his neck with one palm, his eyes focused on the floor.

"Ok," replied Sam, judging quickly from Dean's mood that it would be best to await an explanation.

"The angels are shutting down this reality… something about mopping up Zachariah's mess and re-joining the souls he split," Dean stated. Sam nodded his understanding, hardly surprised by the turn of events, given the angels' track record for dick moves.

"And Jo?" Sam finally pressed, climbing to his feet with a groan as his body ached in protest from the earlier fight. He threw the scrubbing brush he had gripped into the bucket at his feet, sploshing more water and bubbles onto his shoes and the floor. Dean's eyes were drawn to the sound, instead of to Sam's face, and the youngest Winchester immediately knew it was bad.

"Nothing changes," Dean said softly, although his voice carried more sorrow now than anger; his rage had been dulled by the sense of loss that was beginning to almost overwhelm him.

"Man… Dean… I'm…" Sam began, taking a step towards his brother.

"Don't… I can't deal with pity right now, Sam," Dean stated, finally forcing himself to meet his brother's gaze as he realised he owed him that much at least. When he did, Sam instantly wished he had not as, reflected in Dean's eyes was the most excruciating pain that he had witnessed for many years.

"There must be something…" said Sam desperately, unwilling to allow the subject to rest, although his better judgement pleaded with him to.

Surprisingly, Dean nodded, "Yeah… I just have to convince the woman I knocked out, tied to a chair, got kidnapped, and then invoked the spirit of her dead husband, to grab onto the douche in a trench coat and come with me to my alternate reality. You think I should tell her I love her before or after that?"

Sam puffed out his cheeks and released a breath, his head almost spinning from Dean's confusing and yet accurate tirade. All he could do was offer his brother a sympathetic smile that served little purpose.

"You've had crazier ideas, is all I'm saying," Sam eventually replied, before dropping back onto his knees and taking up the scrubbing brush once again. Although he knew that his actions hardly mattered, that soon the very floor itself would cease to exist, and the house along with it, Sam welcomed the distraction.

Dean remained in the kitchen doorway for a while, watching his brother work silently, his thoughts turning over so violently that Sam could almost hear them. Finally, there was a rustle of cloth from over Dean's shoulder, and he did not have to turn to know that it heralded Cas' arrival.

As the angel spoke, Dean's shoulders slumped, and his heart constricted in his chest.

"It is time."

**x-x-x**

By the look on Dean's face, Jo had known that they were leaving before he had managed to stutter out the words. He appeared shell-shocked and crestfallen and even a little heartbroken, and although Jo's first instinct had been to reach out and smooth the frown from his lips with her fingertips, she had refrained. She was uncertain as to why it felt so wrong, but her desire to melt into Dean's arms seemed almost like a betrayal of her husband, and so she kept her back pressed against the kitchen wall as he said his piece. There was an explanation of events, and of what was to happen next, and ultimately an apology for all the pain he had brought to her, so he perceived it. However, Jo remained quiet throughout, allowing Dean to pour out the things she knew would eat him up from the inside otherwise. When a hush eventually fell over the room, Jo pushed away from the wall and approached the hunter slowly.

Dean stood straighter, his breathing growing shallow as his eyes studied Jo's face. She drew to a halt in front of him, pausing to enjoy the scent of his aftershave, the same one worn by her Dean in this apparently phoney reality, before she raised her eyes to his face.

"I just want you to know that I will never blame you for the crappy things that have happened in my life," she breathed quietly, "meeting you was like… finding somethin' I didn't even know was missing. I mean… God, you make me crazy, Dean Winchester… you're rude, and conceited, and immature, and…"

"Tell it like it is," Dean said, a small chuckle escaping his lips as he continued to stare at Jo, his expression somewhat mystified.

She faltered only momentarily, launching back into her speech with as much gusto as If she had never tailed off, "You use humour as a defence mechanism, you won't talk about your feelings, you think about sex pretty much every other second… but you always save me the last piece of pie, and you hide Reese's cups in the glove compartment of my truck because you know they're my favourite, and you drove across two state lines for tickets to an REO tribute concert."

Dean nodded, his face falling as he replied, "Except, I didn't do any of those things."

Jo smiled slightly, "But you would have. Because that's just Dean Winchester… in this reality or another. He's a good man – the best, even. No matter what happens, I don't want you to blame yourself for my choices, or how they turn out. In your world, I died on the floor of a hardware store in some ass-backwards town with my guts in my hands… but those were my choices, and they sound like pretty damn good ones to me because, this Dean guy… well, the world's a better place for having him in it."

Almost on impulse, Dean reached out and gathered the blonde into his arms, leaning down to inhale the scent of her, and smiling when he felt her nestle into him. They were a good fit – perhaps not perfect – but Dean had learned from a young age that things seldom were.

Drawing back after a minute had elapsed, reluctance painted across his features, Dean demanded, "Come with me, Jo… please."

She let out a tiny sigh, although she did not set about retracting herself from his arms, and so Dean only held on tighter.

"Dean, please… I can't," she murmured, shaking her head as she spoke. Dean's face fell, and his fingertips pressed into Jo's arms almost painfully, as though he were afraid to let her go.

"I won't force you," he promised, looking for all the world as though he wished he could, "this has to be your choice but… that good guy you talked about… there was this girl… she was beautiful, and smart, and funny, she had a helluva left hook, and she was too good for his sorry ass, but she liked him anyway… and he let her go..."

Jo listened, her eyes glistening in the fading light with tears. Dean brushed a tendril of hair away from her forehead, toying with it momentarily.

"It was the biggest mistake of my life, Jo," he muttered, "because you were made for me… in this reality or another."

Jo tore her gaze away from Dean's face, tears finally cascading down her cheeks and splashing onto the front of her sweater.

"Goodbye, Dean," she whispered, her chin dropping to her chest as she took a step backwards, and out of the circle of his arms.

Nodding, Dean turned on his heel, stealing himself for the walk towards the porch door, and out into the junk yard, where Cas and Sam were waiting for him patiently, both secretly hoping that he could win Jo round somehow from her resolve to remain in her doomed reality. He could not bring himself to utter a goodbye, not with similar words replaying in his head – 'see you on the other side', 'make it later'. Dean screwed his eyes tight shut against the memories, and against the salty tears that stung his eyes.

However, as he walked, Dean found words weaving their way into his brain seemingly from nowhere, and they were spilling out of his mouth before he had even had a chance to recognise what they were.

"All I ask for when I pray, steady rollin' woman gonna come my way…" he sang quietly, marvelling at how his voice echoed through the hallway of Bobby Singer's house.

Jo's head snapped up and her eyes widened, affixing on Dean's retreating form as he held open the screen door and stepped out onto the stoop.

She could still hear him, even from her position in the kitchen, where suddenly memories that were not hers began to creep into her head; the sound of hellhound's talons as they raked across asphalt, the feel of her own hair being ripped out from the roots by the hand of a pissed off spirit, and herself, storming angrily through long grass as she listened to the sound of the Impala engine rumbling off into the distance.

Jo gripped the edge of the table for support, and her eyes darted to the kitchen window. Outside, she could see Sam and Dean beginning to reach for the hands of the dark haired man in a trench coat, whose name a voice in the back of her mind told her was Castiel.

Jo was out of her seat and running in the next instant.


	13. Chapter 13

**Ficawesome Gift Exchange- 3some**

**Title: **The Other Side

**Written for: **Saren Kol

**Written By: **Silverspoon

**Rating: **K

**Summary/Prompt used: **1) Our pair get lost.

2) Our pair end up in a sticky situation.

**If you would like to see all the stories that are a part of this exchange visit the Facebook group: Fanficaholics Anon: Where Obsession Never Sleeps or add the C2 to get all the stories direct to your inbox. **

_**Epilogue**_

_**One year later…**_

The gas station was like a hundred others that Dean had found himself loitering in since the Winchesters had hit the road all those years ago. The refrigerator hummed just a little too loudly, whilst speakers intermittently spewed out retro pop tunes, and stacks of empty cardboard boxes formed inconvenient towers in the middle of aisles. The whole scene was vaguely comforting, and so Dean moved through the shelves a little slower than he really ought to, his fingertips brushing against merchandise he had no intention of buying. When his knuckles grazed an orange packet, Dean's lips curved into a smile, and he tossed the item into the basket along with a bottle of coke and a still mineral water. Several more impulse purchases later, and Dean wound his way through the packaging debris littering the aisles, and towards the cash register.

Barely glancing at Dean, the clerk scanned the basket of items, pausing only to raise an eyebrow at the surreal combination of a whole chocolate mud pie with a solitary fork, and a bag of carrot sticks. Dean simply continued to wait patiently, counting out dollar bills from his wallet as the cashier worked, and hardly caring about the extra, unnecessary seconds that elapsed. Time no longer seemed as important to Dean as it once had, and since the events of a year ago, he had begun to stroll through life at somewhat more of a leisurely pace. Dean shook his head as the images of Bobby sitting prone in a wheelchair crept unbidden into his memory, as they were sometimes inclined to do. With the maudlin thoughts successfully banished for another day, Dean settled the bill and collected his brown paper bag, which was brimming with snacks for the road ahead. He pushed out into the gas station parking lot and the afternoon sunshine gratefully, taking in a large gulp of air to compensate for the slightly stale atmosphere he had been breathing for the past quarter hour.

Catching sight of a familiar sleek, black hood, Dean headed towards the farthest pump, shifting the bag in his arms to prevent from dropping it. Sam was crouched down by the front wheel of the car, squinting as he kept a watchful eye on the needle of the tyre pressure testing machine as it jumped. Dean cleared his throat and rested the paper bag on the hood.

"They have everything?" Sam inquired, his tone only half interested as he shot glances between the machine and his brother. Dean only nodded before reaching into the bag and pulling out the pie along with the bag of candy he had snatched from the shelf. He tore into the packaging of the latter with his teeth, before setting to work on the pie. Sam only frowned, his intolerance for high sugar gas station foods evident in his expression.

"You about done there, Sammy?" Dean finally pressed, opening the door of the Impala and tossing the paper bag into the footwell of the front passenger seat. He added as an afterthought, "I got your water."

"Thanks," Sam replied, a surprised expression contorting his features even as he slipped his sunglasses over his eyes. He had half expected Dean to downright ignore his request, especially considering his older brother viewed actually paying for water as akin to one of the seven deadly sins. Although, Sam admonished, Dean had changed a great deal over the last year.

"They didn't have sparkling, so I got you that fresh-mountain-air pansy crap that you like instead," Dean added as an afterthought as he settled himself into the driving seat and began to toy with the cassette deck. Well, perhaps he hadn't changed that much, Sam thought wryly.

"Thanks," the younger Winchester reiterated, finally finishing up with the somewhat deflated tyre before he climbed into the passenger side. Several minor seat adjustments later, Dean was pulling out of the parking lot with the pie sitting in his lap, complete with plastic white fork standing erect in the centre.

"So, where does the open road take us next, Sammy-boy?" Dean asked in a fake jovial tone that boomed above the volume of Led Zeppelin. As a familiar guitar riff started up, heavy on the drum beat, Dean visibly squirmed in his seat and fast forwarded through the track with one finger pressed hard against the controls. Try as he may, he had been unable to listen to Black Dog for quite some time now given the unpleasant thoughts it provoked, and the painful reminder of what ifs contained in its lyrics. Releasing the button once he was satisfied that enough tape had been wound, Dean leaned back in his seat and began steering the car around the back of the gas station.

"Phoenix, Arizona," Sam stated, removing the newspaper from the side of the door and shaking it open, "five victims so far…"

"Wait, is this gonna end in coke chic teenage girls and tall haired vampires… cos we've been down this road before…" Dean teased, shooting Sam a faint smile, which the other hunter returned with a chuckle.

"More likely a woman in white, since our victims were all lured off a deserted highway to their deaths," Sam answered, adding with a snort, "sorry to disappoint."

"On the contrary, Sammy," Dean answered softly, "we're going right back to the beginning."

Sam shot his brother an odd look, watching as Dean gripped the steering wheel tighter, seemingly lost in his own thoughts for several moments.

"I guess," he finally murmured in reply. Then, with a smirk, Sam demanded, "Hey, aren't you forgetting something?"

Dean shot a glare over his shoulder at the backseat Sam occupied, his eyes narrowed as he regarded his brother.

"As if, Sam," he retorted, finally drawing the Impala level with the curb at the rear of the gas station, and throwing open the front passenger door just as a blonde head bobbed around the corner from where the bathrooms were located. Immediately, Dean's face lit up, and a genuine smile bloomed upon his lips as he watched Jo slide into the car at his side. He hardly cared that she slammed the door of his baby, as usual.

Jo turned her head, and her dazzling smile was for Dean only. Sam watched from the back seat, an amused smirk twitching across his lips as he witnessed the electricity pass between boyfriend and girlfriend. Jo leaned in and initiated a kiss that could almost be described as searing, and out of equal parts respect and discomfort, Sam glanced away. When he finally looked back, Jo was eyeing the pie balanced on Dean's lap with a confused expression.

"You bought pie?" she queried, slipping her sunglasses into the glove box for safe keeping. Sam knew that the only reason Dean did not object about their placement was because he got a kick out of seeing them alongside his stack of cassette tapes and rolls of breath-mints. It was just one of the many small female touches added to their lives over the last year that Dean seemed to relish in, and Sam could not blame him one bit.

"Of course," Dean replied, his tone growing warmer and softer in ways that were reserved only for Jo, "it's your birthday, isn't it?"

There was a moment of silence in which Jo beamed, and Dean leaned forwards in order to brush his lips against her forehead.

"Happy birthday, sweetheart," he murmured, drawing away with reluctance in his eyes.

Jo let out a giggle, lifting the foil clad pie from Dean's knees and holding it up at eye level to examine it. In the centre of the dessert, Dean had arranged bite size Reese's cups into a heart shape.

"I approve, Dean-o," Jo conceded, even as she worked the fork out from the middle of the pie. It came away clad in chocolate goo, and Jo slipped the prongs into her mouth with a delighted groan.

"So, where next?" she inquired, scooping up a mound of pie on the plastic fork and delivering it to Dean's mouth. Sam leaned back against the leather interior, taking a rare moment of quiet to enjoy the scene of domesticity as it played out before him.

The last year seemed both to have flown by, and yet somehow also moved at a snail's pace. Jo had managed to cross the Singer lot and grab a fistful of Castiel's trench coat just as they had been propelled from the collapsing dimension back to their own. When they had touched ground, it had become immediately apparent that both Dean and Jo were not the same; both somehow effected by the events that had occurred on a level that was not just strictly emotional. Dean had sat in the dirt holding his head and hollering as waves of fresh memories, memories that were not really his own, had crashed down upon him; meanwhile, the blonde had stood quietly, tears rolling down her cheeks as she was subjected to visions of the short life of the Joanna Beth Harvelle who had sacrificed herself in the fight with the devil.

The experience had lasted several moments that had seemed more like several agonising hours, and Sam had expected the fallout to be immense. Instead, when their confusion had subsided, the two hunters had flung themselves into each other's arms, and the barrier between dimensions had simply melted away.

Sometimes, Sam would catch Dean looking at Jo with the ghost of a memory in his eyes and the whisper of a smile upon his lips, and Sam was almost certain that his brother was remembering some scene lived out by his counterpart self. It was somewhat disconcerting, and Sam was no longer sure as to exactly who his brother was. However, of one thing, Sam was certain; Dean Winchester was finally, unequivocally happy, and nobody could begrudge the world weary hunter that.

Dean and Jo had fallen almost instantly into a relationship that seemed to walk some sort of middle ground between what they had been in the real dimension, and what they had managed to have in the fake one. There was no talk of marriage, four by fours, and picket fences in respectable neighbourhoods, but neither had the lingering looks of longing prevailed or the notion of the 'wrong place, wrong time'. They hunted still, because it was both in their nature and their blood, but instead of being the hopeless pursuit it once had been, it was simply a way to pass the time until they were ready for something more. Indeed, Sam knew that both Jo and Dean still wore their respective wedding rings on chains around their necks, perhaps waiting for the day when wearing them on their fingers again did not seem like such a big deal. Sam had no doubt that that day would come, bringing along with it a host of other things that few hunters had ever been lucky enough to enjoy.

Bruised, battered and bent out of shape, Dean Winchester and Jo Harvelle had been granted a second chance, even though all things in Heaven and Earth had conspired against them. Sam had to admire the poetry in that thought, and so as they drove off into another sunset, Zeppelin blasting from the stereo and Jo doling out generous forkfuls of 'birthday pie', Sam simply did just that.

_**The End**_

_**A. N. - A huge thank you to all who have stuck with this story from the beginning, and a second to all those who adopted it somewhere along the way. I couldn't leave you without your ending, now could I?! **_

_**If you're left wanting more, please see my profile for more fandom goodness. Take care, everyone. **_


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